


A Touch of Destiny

by Morbid_Hatter



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breaking Up & Making Up, Destiny, Enemies to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Slight Gratuitous Cherry-Picking of Canon, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:02:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26674849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbid_Hatter/pseuds/Morbid_Hatter
Summary: There are certain things that are destined to happen. Occasionally for those things to happen Destiny has to get personally involved to put pieces where they need to be.Vernon Roche finds himself in Destiny's clutches, thrown back into the past, and tasked with saving Isengrim and Iorveth from execution and that they ended up on the right path.He didn't intend for more to happen...
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 23
Kudos: 64





	A Touch of Destiny

A Touch of Destiny

  
  


I.

  
  


Vernon Roche would be lying if he said he didn't believe in Destiny. The son of a whore could never amount to more than a thief or worse without Destiny taking notice and putting him in the right place at the right time. He would have also argued that his own deeds and merits caused King Foltest to take notice of a soldier. Now, with a second war against the juggernaut of the Nilfgaardian war machine, he was called to serve as something special. 

He stood tall before his king as an equal to the other officers lined up along the massive table cut in the shape of the Continent. Foltest spoke to each officer individually, granting them command over soldiers, cavalry, siege, and ranged units. One by one, officers were assigned and dismissed until Roche stood alone. 

He licked his suddenly dry lips when every unit displayed on the map had been assigned and accounted for. Still, he stood at parade rest and sent a quick prayer to the gods that he wasn’t about to be discharged. 

"Don't be so nervous, son," King Foltest said with a wry grin. "You look like you're standing at the gallows."

"Apologies, Your Majesty," he replied automatically, choosing to apologize rather than ask what he wanted. He wanted to know what Foltest had planned for him, but he wanted more to keep his head. 

"Vernon Roche, a man of no background and no renown before you enlisted. Your mother is a - well, you know. And you have no idea who your father is, right?"

Roche felt something tick in his jaw but when he answered, his voice was calm and level. "Yes, Your Majesty. But, I don’t see how that -"

" - how that has anything to do with your rank in my army? Son, it means everything! You clawed your way up from the gutter and became an officer with nothing but grit and determination." Foltest came around the table and stood directly in front of him, his shrewd gaze roving over Roche's face, as if looking for something hidden. "I want to build a new, elite unit of Special Forces that will work as a secret, independent unit. I want you to find others like you, others who have proven themselves by their own merit. The Blue Stripes need a Commander to lead them in eliminating the threat of the Scoia’tael."

Roche felt his jaw drop. Never would he have guessed he was charged with creating his own unit from the ground up. When he was given the order to meet with the Temerian King, he had assumed that he would get a pat on the head and told to get his ass back in line to push the invading Nilfgaardians out of Temeria; getting to lead a Special Forces squad was well beyond what he had envisioned. “I - Your Majesty - this is - I - I’m honored,” he finally stuttered out after his mind had time to process the enormity of the task he had been given. 

Foltest smiled and clapped a hand on Roche’s shoulder. “I need you to take out the Scoia’tael, they pose a direct threat to Temeria even before you take account they’re working with the Black Ones. They’re terrorists. They’re pillaging supply trains, burning down villages, killing my people, I want those elves dealt with. Am I clear, son?” 

Growing up in the slums, he had seen the worst of humanity. He knew exactly what Foltest meant. It wasn’t difficult to read between the lines and know that Foltest wanted him to get rid of the non-human threat - not just the Scoia’tael who were acting as freedom fighters to try and win their people a safe place but non-humans as a whole. He had met enough half-elves who were shunned by both races to know that hatred ran deep. He looked at his king, the man granting him more power than anyone with his background couldn’t even dream of and saw it - the spark of something more sinister than a king trying to help his people. 

Hatred and racism wore many faces.

“Clear as a summer’s day, Your Majesty,” he answered, feeling something tighten in his chest. If he was given command of a group not acting as part of the army as a whole, he had only Foltest to answer to and one person giving commands hundreds of miles away was a lot easier to answer to and work around as much as possible than someone who stood next to him breathing down his neck. 

If it came down to it, he knew that he would make himself a monster to protect Temeria, but a line must be drawn and he wouldn’t step over it without cause. 

“For Temeria.”

“For Temeria,” Roche repeated with a bow before backing away as he was dismissed. 

  
  
  


II.

  
  


1267 was proving to be an interesting year for one Vernon Roche. Never before had he needed to employ so many of the skills he had learned on the streets. He had once pushed aside his skills at thievery, stealth, and secrets, but they were now as important to him as knowing how to swing a sword and shoot a crossbow. 

His little band of Blue Stripes was growing and he felt as if he was doing something good with his life. Yes, they had been given some questionable orders, but Roche was getting very good at knowing which orders he could bend to suit his line in the sand, and which ones needed to be followed to the letter. It kept him up at night, but he would do what needed to be done so others wouldn’t have to have their hands soaked in blood. 

Currently, he was sitting in a tavern with his back to the wall and a tankard of ale hiding most of his face from view as he watched a flamboyantly dressed bard strut around like he owned the place, singing a song about a Witcher dubbed The White Wolf. Roche hid an eye-roll behind the brim of his tankard and wondered how much of the story about a devil working with elves was true and how much was bullshit. He could already see the bard had all his teeth, so at least part of it was a crock of shit; but he knew that bards had to do what bards had to do, even if he didn’t like inaccuracies in a story unless he was telling it to keep his neck from being broken.

The bard must have sensed eyes on him, as once he finished singing about the Witcher the bard bowed away from the small crowd of women that had gathered in front of him and sat down opposite Roche at his table. “So tell me, what’s a Temerian soldier doing in a place like this?” 

Only years of being forced to never show what he was thinking kept Roche from choking on his ale. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, bard.”

The bard pouted and turned on the full effect of his big blue eyes on Roche. “Oh, come now. Even in plain clothes, I can see the chain around your neck which, no doubt, holds some kind of medal of valor given by King Foltest, and those callouses on your hands come from a sword, there’s no doubt about it.”

Roche wanted to grab at the medal hidden under his shirt - for bravery, not valor - and curse himself for wearing it. Instead, he raised an unimpressed eyebrow and simply said, “I’m not a soldier.” 

The bard tapped his fingers against the table in a rhythm to match the music of his last song. “Oh, I  _ like _ you. Let me guess: you were a soldier before you got noticed. I’m guessing you did something incredibly noble and all of a sudden a little farm boy from a little town finds himself in charge of more men than he knows what to do with. Oh, but then why are you out here? Conscription?” 

Something snapped and Roche found his hand wrapped in the bard’s flashy doublet, pulling him in close. “Listen, you need to shut your fucking mouth, bard. A troubadour who has his mouth sewn shut can’t earn a living.” 

Instead of fear, the bard had the nerve to look at Roche like he had just given him the best gift of his life. “Oh, well that makes sense.” Suddenly the bard reached up and twisted Roche’s hand in such a way that he had to let go or risk breaking his wrist and several fingers. “I didn’t recognize you without the chaperon and the, uh,  _ blue stripes _ , but I’ve heard of you. Commander Roche, right?” This was all whispered lowly so that other patrons, were they attempting to listen in, wouldn’t be able to hear them nor read the bard’s lips. “Foltest speaks highly of you.” 

His shock must have been apparent on his face, regardless of how hard he tried to hide it. “Relax. We just have several friends in common. Come on, take a walk with me. I need some air after all that dancing and singing.” 

Without leaving any room for argument, the bard (who annoyingly knew way more about him than Roche knew about the bard) grabbed onto Roche’s wrist - the same one he nearly broke - and swept his lute over his head to rest against his back. 

Now, Roche knew he wasn’t the smartest person on the Continent, but he knew he couldn’t be considered ‘dumb’ by most standards. But right now, with a brightly colored man leading him by the wrist, chattering on about gods only knew what, Roche was well on his way to thinking he had thoroughly lost the plot - especially now as he was forced to back against the outside wall of the back of the tavern with a knife poking him in the ribs. 

“I’m going to say this once, so listen closely and keep your mouth shut. It is  _ literally  _ a matter of life and death that you forget you saw me here. No one can know anything. Do you understand? Just nod if you do.” Roche nodded, his eyes wide and resisting the childish urge to lick the bard’s hand that was currently covering his mouth. “Good. I have sensitive information that needs to get back to Foltest as soon as possible, so please don’t do anything stupid like follow me, or order your men to do so.” Roche nodded again and watched in surprise as the knife that had been applying enough pressure to hurt but not to break skin was suddenly gone. 

“Who the hell are you?” Roche heard himself ask as soon as his mouth was free. “I won’t say anything, I just - I wish I had someone with your skills on my team.” 

The knife was back again, idly scratching at the dark goatee on the bard’s chin. “I suppose my name won’t hurt. They call me Dandelion. I’m a bard of some renown. And as for having my skills on your team, I may actually be able to help you there. 

“Do you know where you are, Commander? This village was built near the ruins of another. Several years ago, the original village was razed to the ground by a group of rogue Scoia’tael. They destroyed the entire village and killed almost everyone. You may want to take your commandos down the river a few miles and you may find the same group of Scoia’tael who may have someone that could benefit with some rescue assistance, and that someone may be very skilled and may very well fit into your squad.” 

Roche poorly hid an indignant squawk when the bard bopped him on the nose as if he was a child before waving goodbye. “Wha -” he began inelegantly before Dandelion had turned and started walking away. 

“I have a feeling we will be seeing a lot more of each other.” As smooth as any thief, Dandelion disappeared around the corner and was gone by the time Roche hurried to catch up to him. 

\----

When they asked, Roche didn’t mention how a bard had gotten the jump on him, how this  _ Dandelion _ had seen right through him - he hadn’t been totally correct with his assumptions of Roche’s background, but that wasn’t the point. 

“I just don’t get it, boss. Why are we going off something you overheard in a tavern?” Thirteen said for the fourth time that morning as they followed the river towards where Dandelion had suggested they look.

Not for the first time that morning, Roche found himself barely resisting the urge to drown the rest of the Stripes in the Pontar and just start over. He could picture it, “Oh, it was a terrible accident, Your Majesty,” he’d say to Foltest “They all just  _ died _ . I don’t know how it could have happened.” Maybe he could even force himself to cry a little, just to really sell it. 

Instead of causing himself more work finding and training all new recruits when he already had a decent-sized team of mostly-competent albeit infuriating commandos, he took a deep breath and centered himself. “Because our job is to eliminate the threat the Scoia’tael imposes on Temeria. What happens if we just decided this wasn’t worth it and it’s all true? Would you be okay letting them destroy another entire village?” he asked as even-toned as he was able. “But more importantly, Thirteen? Because I fucking said so.”

He valiantly ignored the chorus of cackling laughter until a flash of movement from deep in the forest made him stop and throw up his fist. The laughter and footsteps stopped in an instant and his commandos immediately turned their focus to follow Roche’s line of sight. They easily fell into position and blended into the trees like the Squirrels they were hunting.

In no time, they had the camp surrounded. Roche wondered if it wasn’t too late to hunt down Dandelion and ask him how, exactly, he had known about the girl. (But he wouldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to, he didn’t want to know how the bard worked that knife that seemed to have a questionable relationship with existence.) “Cover me. I’m going to free the girl,” he directed to Finch, his marksman.

As one, like hounds freed on a hunt, his Blue Stripes descended on the camp. Roche kept an eye on his men while he wound his way through the shadows until he was able to bring his Falchion across the vulnerable neck of the apparent leader of Scoia’tael. Once his main threat was removed, he went about unlocking the heavy manacles on the girl.

He got headbutted for his trouble.

“What the fuck?”  _ Oh, I am going to have  _ words _ for that fucking bard.  _ “We’re here to help you, for fuck’s sake.” He gritted his teeth against the instant headache and tried to breathe through his mouth so he wouldn’t choke on the blood flowing freely from his nose. 

The veritable fountain of blood he was now soaked in, some from cutting the elf’s throat, most from his own face, made it difficult to work with the lock. His slippery fingers were growing tacky as the blood dried. Eventually, he was able to open the lock, and he had only just removed the heavy chains when the girl reached for his hip, stole his dagger, and threw it over his shoulder in the blink of an eye. “Any slower and we’d both be dead,” she drawled as she stood and retrieved the dagger from the eye of a Scoia’tael that had been coming up behind him without his knowledge.

“Huh,” Roche heard himself answer inelegantly as he stared at the dead Scoia’tael not ten paces from where he had been kneeling. 

“Are all soldiers as eloquent as you or am I just special and get rescued by the shining example of oratory skills?” she asked while throwing the dagger again, this time letting it sink into the shoulder of an archer who had only moments before, raised their bow to take a shot at Silas, giving the kid enough time to duck away. 

Roche knew he was being insulted, he wasn’t dumb regardless of his minimal education outside of the army, but he was too busy being impressed to worry too much about it. “I can see why they kept you locked up.” It was, upon reflection, not that best option for a reply and the quick jab to his kidney confirmed his thought, but he was impressed and also, all of a sudden, very dizzy. “Oh, fuck.”

\----

He woke up later to his commandos hovering over him like they had been sitting vigil at his death bed, not taking bets on how long it would take him to wake up, or offer the girl a place in the Stripes (as he knew  _ very well _ they had been. He may have lost consciousness due to blood loss, but his eyesight was just fine and he fucking saw them pass those orens around, those assholes). 

“Boss, she’s  _ amazing _ ,” Fenn said with something like awe on his face. “I think she just about broke my wrist arm wrestling me.” 

Roche worried for his team, he really did. 

“If anything, it seems like she kept you all in line. Where is she?” he asked once he was sitting upright. “I need to offer her a job, just as soon as I find out her name.” 

  
  


III.

  
  


Outside of Flotsam, Roche spun a bottle of Dwarven Spirits around listlessly. The worst part about war was how much time you had. Time to think, time to plan, but also time to  _ remember _ . He was tired of remembering every last move, every failure, in vivid detail. 

With Foltest dead and nothing to do but wait to see what happens next, what John Fucking Natalis decides to do, Roche finds himself drinking more often than he should. He’s got feelers out, his little birds searching for any sign or sighting of the Kingslayer, but he hasn’t heard anything of worth yet.

Fuck, the only thing he’s managed to accomplish was to stop Dandelion and Zoltan Chivay from hanging.  _ No, that was Geralt.  _ He sighed heavily and knocked his head against the table to stop himself from dragging his mood lower than it already was.  _ My king is dead, Temeria is on the brink of destruction, what else is there to do but follow Geralt and Triss?  _ “Fucking revenge and squirrel hunting,” he muttered darkly before he stood up when something caused his Stripes to quiet down so quickly.

It was such a relief to see Geralt. It meant action, something to do instead of sitting around waiting on the inevitable end. The Peace of Cintra was a fucking joke now. He remembers standing behind Foltest during the signing of the peace treaty back in ‘68, and was that already three years ago? It had seemed like a dream at the time, he had spent almost the entire war trying to clear out the worst of the Nilfgaardian threat and they were all being handed the very ones he’d been hunting. 

Fifty-five officers under the Virhedd Brigade were to be turned over to the Northern Kingdoms to be tried as war criminals. 

It had put a dent in his list. Or, it had for a while. Rumors were going around, had been since the Ravine of the Hydra, but rumors were only just that. Roche made it his fucking  _ job _ to know these things and he had seen neither hide nor hair of Isengrim or Iorveth. There were still plenty of living Socia’tael to go after instead of chasing rumors and ghosts. 

But, even so. There were times he didn’t wonder if… 

Roche had prided himself on knowing all there was to know about his enemy, and something told him there was more to the rumors and speculation. Two years ago they had all been executed and thrown into the Ravine. But there was something about the forest outside of Flotsam that just rubbed him the wrong way. The Scoia’tael in the forest were too organized, too well trained to be the remains of a unit of regular freedom fighters. They had a leader. 

Logically, he knew it was likely that they had just neglected to count the bodies as they dumped them in the Ravine. Logic also told him that Isengrim and Iorveth had escaped like the wily fuckers they were. How else would their names be floating around with the rumors? If it wasn't fifty-three dead out of fifty-five, why did everyone know who would have survived?

He pondered over it more often than was probably healthy, but fuck it - he literally had nothing left. He’d obsess over the damn Scoia’tael if he wanted to. It was his sworn duty; even if the one he swore to had been assassinated. 

Roche followed Geralt and Triss into the forest. Partly because he had a burning, desperate need to find the Kingslayer, and partly because he just had to know. They followed the paths through the trees and all of a sudden, Roche heard music. It was some kind of flute. He had never heard the piece before, he wasn’t even sure if the person playing wasn't just making it up on the spot, but something in the melody spoke to him like the notes were trying to tell him something if only he could parse it out. 

The melody gently faded out as the musician came into view. The elf was sitting on a large tree branch above their heads, high enough to keep out of reach, but not high enough that Roche couldn’t see the look on the elf’s face. 

Tall and slim, wearing a string of special forces insignia across his chest and a crimson bandana covering his right eye, stood none other than Iorveth. 

"Vernon Roche." His name had rarely been said with so much contempt he was tempted to ask if he owed the elf money. The almost betrayed look on Iorveth's face kept him still, kept him from immediately drawing his weapon; it was like looking at a well of nothing but pain. And just as soon as he noticed it, it was gone. "Special Forces Commander for the last four years. Servant of the Temerian King. Responsible for the pacification of the Mahakaman Foothills. Hunter of elves, murderer of women and children. Twice decorated for valor on the field of battle," Iorveth's list of Roche’s accomplishments trailed off as he mockingly applauded. 

Never before had he felt anything other than pride at what he had managed to accomplish, but the Scoia’tael up in the tree made something like bitter shame creep up. His response was less than stellar, falling back on his most hated insult because he had fuck-all else to use.  _ So much for knowing my enemy _ . He was deeply uncomfortable with just how much Iorveth seemed to know about him, especially compared to how little he really knew about the Scoia’tael commander. It brought up another flare of shame like he  _ should know this _ , but the only thing he could think was "oh, he's beautiful," and he knew better than to let that slip. 

_ That can only lead to madness _ .

Still, he felt drawn to the elf. He was intrigued and curious as much as he was enraged at the casual mention of hiring the one responsible for assassinating the only man to ever give Roche a chance. It burned at his gut and there was nothing he could do about it, not with his hands full with carrying Triss after she could no longer keep the shield up and walk at the same time (and getting a handful of a fantastic ass) to prevent them from getting destroyed by the barrage of arrows from Iorveth's Scoia’tael. 

  
  
  


IV.

  
  


Roche sat with his head in his hands and his pulse thundering in his ears. Everything that happened was all for naught. Nilfgaard was on the march again.

He chanced a look across the small fire near his feet. Ves looked a little worse for wear, but she was  _ there _ . “I’m sorry, Little Sister,” he whispered. She was asleep and didn’t hear, but he needed to say it again. Say it over and over until the agony was more manageable. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you, for them. I wish I could’ve been there. I’m sorry I failed you all.”

_ Fail. Fail. Fail.  _

All he could manage to do was fail. First, he fails his King, then he fails his country, then his men…

… but no more. 

He couldn’t change the past but he wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. He’d keep going until he had nothing left to give. And now, he could give Ves time to rest and heal. She was strong and would never admit to anything being wrong, but his failure was directly responsible for Henselt raping his Lieutenant. 

When she told him everything in the same tone she used when reporting any ordinary action it had made him feel physically ill. She didn’t want his sympathy or pity, she wanted to be treated the same as before and he would try for her; but in the safety of his mind, he could see the faint tremor in her fingers. 

Self-flagellation took many forms. Roche sat up all night and replayed his failures, punishing himself by not letting himself forget. 

_ Roche didn’t know where he was going. It was like something pulled him into the forest. He didn’t really have time to be traipsing through the woods, but something told him he had to make time.  _

_ Over the sounds of the forest, he heard it - the draw of a blade from its sheath. He cursed himself for his inattention.  _

_ Roche drew his sword and pushed a tree branch out of his way and revealed the Scoia’tael Commander. Roche stopped and quickly looked around. The clearing was barely big enough to warrant the term but it would have to do. He would have to watch his feet. _

_ Iorveth bared his teeth in a feral grin before he lept, light-footed and sure, across the distance and swung his sword. Roche cursed inwardly and brought his blade up to parry the attack.  _

_ They fought like they could read each other’s minds. Each attack was met with a counter. Neither of them could gain the upper hand.  _

_ He didn’t know how long he would be able to keep up the ferocity of their attacks for much longer, he could feel his muscles protesting and his lungs burning for air.  _

_Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. One misstep was his undoing. He was down on the ground, disarmed. Iorveth crouched down to get in Roche’s face. “The Temerian special forces, created_ _by Foltest to combat the Scoia’tael after the first war with Nilfgaard. Veterans, professionals, the best of the best._ _This is the end_ , Roche. _See these emblems? Temerian lilies - that’s all I lacked. I’ve defeated the commander’s of all the special forces in the North. Now, I shall unite the Scoia’tael._

_ There was something in the way Iorveth said his name that burned deep. He understood the hate and contempt, but there was something more to it that he couldn’t place.  _ It doesn’t matter now, _ Roche thought to himself, resigned. “Finish what you started,” he demanded. If he was going to die, he was going to do it like a warrior, facing it head-on. _

_ Iorveth shook his head, a mean look on his beautiful face as he tore Roche’s insignia from his gambeson. “I shan’t kill you, Roche. We Aen Seidhe never kill the last specimens of dying breeds.”  _ _ Iorveth stood up and looked down on him like he was going to do it, he was really going to let him go.  _

_ “Live on and remember who defeated you. Remember, he can do so again. Va faill, Vernon Roche.”  _

_ He didn’t want to needle the Scoia’tael Commander into changing his mind and killing him, but something about the laugh around the Elder didn’t sit right. _

_ “You’re making a mistake, Iorveth. I will find you,” Roche called to Iorveth’s back. The elf didn’t dignify Roche’s declaration with a response like Roche wasn’t worth the effort; like he had been judged and found lacking. _

Roche shook his head to dislodge his memory. He hadn’t meant to go back to that, but like everything else about the Scoia’tael Commander, Roche was drawn to him like a magnet. It was infuriating, especially when he just couldn’t understand why. 

He forced himself away from thoughts about the elf who wasn’t going to be his problem anymore since he was staying in Vergen. He needed to make sure Ves could recover in peace and they could regroup. 

“Sleep well, Little Sister. We’ll figure out our next steps together, I won’t let anything happen to you again,” he vowed before hunkering down with his sword across his lap and his sharp eyes keeping a lookout so he could protect the last important person he had left in his life.

  
  


V.

  
  


One minute he and Ves had been digging traps out in the woods surrounding the Witchers keep, the next he was sure he was going mad. It was the only way to explain what he had seen. 

"You know, Ves, when we get back to camp, you're going to have to show those men how to brew proper hooch," Roche teased Second while he shook the flask of Lambert's potato vodka. "I never thought I'd miss your paint-peeling liquor." 

He didn't get an answer.

Roche spun quickly to face his Second to find everything seemed to be frozen - not like they were too late and the Wild Hunt brought ice with them, but something had stopped Ves in her tracks.

"What the fuck?"

Dandelion was standing next to him. Or, he was mostly sure it was Dandelion. Roche hadn’t seen the bard since he and Ves had taken to recruiting guerilla fighters to stand in place of his lost Blue Stripes to fight to rebuild Temeria. (He hadn’t been trying to  _ replace  _ them, just start a new group to try to fight for peace and freedom. And no, the irony of having the same motivation as the Scoia’tael was not lost on him.) The bard looked like his usual self, still annoyingly youthful and flamboyant. Roche dived at the bard and tackled him to the ground, “Are you insane? What are you doing out here? Especially dressed like that, you’ll lead the Wild Hunt straight to you with how loud that doublet is.”

He could feel Dandelion melt under him. “Aww, Roche. You  _ do _ care.” 

“Rumors and speculation,” he answered dryly, still keeping the out-of-place bard pinned to the ground to keep him shielded with his larger frame. “And you didn’t answer me.” 

Dandelion heaved a very put-upon sigh and twisted his arm free. “We don’t have much time.” He touched Roche’s face and Roche felt the bottom of his stomach drop when he noticed he was now very much  _ not  _ in the same place he had been moments before. “I need you to do something for me, Roche. Something very important that should’ve been done but wasn’t. Or, hasn’t yet, but needs to. Semantics.” Dandelion flopped his hands about and gently pushed Roche’s shoulders so he could free himself. 

“Where are we?” Roche demanded, feeling his notorious short-fuse reach its end. 

“We’re not far from Cintra. Just outside of Dillingen, actually. But the better question, Dear Heart, is not ‘where are we’, but ‘ _ when _ are we’ and the answer to that is 13 September 1269.” Dandelion stood up and held out a hand to help Roche to his feet.

While he was still getting his bearings, a travel bag and a set of plain, heavy traveling clothes were shoved into his hands. “Wha-”

“Just shut up and put these on. You’ll get yourself killed wearing those Lilies.” Dandelion pushed Roche into the trees while keeping an eye on the road, a move that should have stuck out as strange coming from someone who was just a civilian now, but Roche was still trying to process the insanity of being three years in the past. “I’m hoping you’ve figured out what you’re supposed to do?” Dandelion prompted, turning the statement into an obvious question.

Roche looked from the pack at his feet to the bard leaning against a tree examining his fingernails with forced ease. He was, understandably in his opinion, still having trouble wrapping his head around the events of the last few minutes. “I’m still trying to process how Julian Pankratz, a Viscount from Lettenhove, just - what? portalled me into the past, hundreds of leagues away from where I was?” 

Dandelion cringed and started to fidget. “Well, you see. Julian Pankratz  _ was _ born in 1229. I am Julian Pankratz. But I’m -”

“You’re more than that. Yeah, I figured,” Roche snarked while he wrestled himself out of his boots and hose and into the plain leather breeches. “Do I get to know what’s been following me around like a shadow when he’s not doing the same to Geralt?”

Dandelion began to pace, his eyes locked on the sky as he tracked the slow progress of the sun through the trees. “I’ve been around longer than you can even begin to imagine.” At that moment, Roche could believe it. He could see it in the slope of his shoulders, in the big blue eyes that belonged to something ancient, not a man in his forties. “I’ve never been content leaving well enough alone. Existence is lonely, so I make mine less so by finding - I guess you could say I play favorites. There’s only so much I can do without disrupting the balance, but I  _ can _ nudge and direct as needed, make sure people are where they’re supposed to be, meet who they need to, do what they’re supposed to - you get the point, right?”

Roche closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth - he wanted to say it, the words were on his tongue, but he couldn’t let them be voiced. It was mad. There was no way…

And yet…

“You’re a god?” Roche guessed as he replayed every interaction they’ve ever had over the years. He scooted back several feet so if the deity he had spent years snarking at and insulting decided to take his penance out of Roche’s hide, he’d have to move to do it. 

“Strictly speaking, no. But for the sake of your understanding, you can say that I’m a god. I am Destiny. And you, my dear, need to help me. You slipped away from my sights after the first war. I’d heard about your Stripes and I’ll admit I thought you had met their fate. Until I heard from one of my Watchers. And then, I realized I’d overlooked you in favor of the larger picture; but you were an integral part of that larger picture. So you need to do something for me. Well, technically you’ve already done it, but time is tricky and not as linear as your kind likes to think.”

Roche shook his head, so confused he worried he had fallen into the pit he and Ves had been digging out and this entire thing was some kind of strange hallucination while he bled to death impaled on wooden stakes. In fact, he reasoned, that was a more logical answer than what Dandelion was saying. “Okay, let’s pretend I understood all that. What, exactly am I meant to be doing - er, meant to have already done and - oh, fuck it. You know what I mean.” His head hurt and he was going to drink himself into oblivion if he wasn’t in the process of bleeding out in the Blue Mountains. 

“And people have the nerve to call me dramatic,” Dandelion,  _ Destiny _ , muttered under his breath. “I can’t actually tell you what needs to be done. I’ve given you enough information to get it done. I can’t interfere any further than this. I’ve been heavy-handed before and people have suffered, have  _ died _ because of it. As I said, it’s a balance and if I disrupt it, reality will correct itself by over-compensating elsewhere.” 

“Does Geralt know his best friend is a god?” That wasn’t what he meant to ask, but it was something he could probably wrap his head around and he needed something understandable before he lost his mind completely.

“No! And he can’t know! If he found out too soon then there wouldn’t be a point in me bringing you back to this place and time because it wouldn’t fucking matter.”  Dandelion Destiny actually looked panicked at the idea of Geralt knowing. 

“Relax, I won’t say a thing,” Roche said quickly, holding out his hands in what he hoped was a pacifying gesture. He wasn’t good at looking less threatening. It’s why he relied on Ves and her charm, why he had relied on Silas’s baby face, and Shorty’s rambling stories about his kids. On his own, he was too much, too intense, to be reassuring. “It’s not like he’d believe me anyway. Fuck, I hardly believe myself. Can I at least still call you Dandelion?”

“I’d prefer it, honestly. Just in case, you understand. Now, give me your uniform. Keep your sword and crossbow. Everything you should ever need is in that pack. Unfortunately, I’ve spent too much time providing exposition, I’m sorry but I have to leave. There’s somewhere else I need to be, but I’ll be back for you when you’ve finished what you need to.” Quick as lightning, Dandelion darted over to Roche and kissed him on his forehead. Roche felt himself sputter and flush. “A touch of Destiny,” Dandelion whispered into his ear before he was gone, vanished as if he had never been there in the first place.

Roche stood frozen in place, letting his mind go over everything Dandelion had said. If he was going to work under the assumption that he wasn’t dead or dreaming then there was a reason he was here. “He said he gave me everything I needed.” He huffed and ran his fingers through his hair, uncomfortable about having his head exposed and vulnerable without the comfort of his armor and chaperon. 

_ Think. Think. Think. _

He forced himself to move, pacing back and forth in the same place Dandelion had already worn down with his own footsteps. "Dillingen. Why is that familiar? The 13th of September, 1269. Fuck, I  _ know _ this."

In September of 1269 he had still been trying to rebuild his team, not to replace what he had lost, but to fight back should the time come. He had been called to stand beside his king during the signing of the Peace of Cintra but was dismissed after to go back to his post as Commander. Or, he reasoned, he was also here at the same time. “Are there two Roche’s right now?” he shook the thought free and tried to let it go before he tangled himself up in confusing knots. 

Roche stopped short, his heart beating jackrabbit fast in his chest. “Fuck.”

Destiny, fucking  _ Destiny _ who was an actual being and not a philosophical concept, and Destiny wanted him to commit treason? He found himself facing a deer trail that would (he was positive) lead him right to the Ravine of the Hydra on the very same day that the officers of the Vrihedd Brigade were executed and Isengrim and Iorveth escaped. “Fuck,” he repeated, something sliding into place in his mind. 

There had always been part of the stories behind the elves' escape. No matter what version of the story he heard, and there were  _ many _ versions, there had never been a definitive answer as to how two officers had escaped. No one had even a guess other than some otherworldly interference. And yeah, now that he thought about it, that seemed to sum up what was about to happen.

Roche shouldered the pack Dandelion had left him and secured his Falchion to his belt and started a brisk pace along the deer trail. 

The concept of moving through time confused him, but he figured it would probably confuse anyone. But he found himself frustrated, his thoughts spinning in circles as he headed to the Ravine. If he was supposed to save Isengrim and Iorveth, does that mean he was more responsible for his king’s death than he ever imagined? Why did it have to be those two? Why  _ just _ those two? How was he supposed to do it? The only casualties at the execution were that of the elves. “Why me?” he finally settled on, the question whispered into the cool forest air. 

_ A touch of Destiny _ whispered back to him from both everywhere and nowhere. 

It raised the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck like he was being watched, but he knew he was alone. Or, as alone as he had ever been if he had been ‘favorited’ by Destiny as Dandelion had heavily implied.

Soon he was met with the stink of rot and copper, a metallic taste to the air and he knew he had reached his destination even before he could see the Ravine through the trees.  _ Well, that explains why it’s only those two who I save, _ he thought, keeping a hysterical laugh trapped in his throat. The condemned had been kept in prison wagons from where they had been shipped down to Cintra and all the wagons were empty save for the closest one where he could see two figures; one was sitting up regardless of the heavy chains holding him in place, the other was slumped over appearing unconscious. 

The executioners were by the bridge, far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to hear if Roche spoke to the captive elves, but still close enough to cause a problem if he didn’t work quickly. 

The one sitting up, Isengrim, turned to face Roche, a look of fury and contempt poorly hidden in the sharp angles of his face and the depths of his haunted eyes. He swore at Roche in Elder, or Roche assumed it was swearing as his knowledge of the elven language was limited to a handful of phrases, none of which would be helpful to him now. "Keep quiet or you'll alert the guards," he hissed, peaking as far around the wagon as he dared to check the guards. 

A lock pick he found in the pocket of his new trousers helped him unlock the gate and the manacles. All the while, Isengrim was spitting quiet curses in his direction which he valiantly ignored. "While all that sounds properly threatening, can it wait until we're safely away from your fucking imminent execution?"

That seemed to be the exact thing to say. Isengrim quieted down and helped him haul Iorveth, still unconscious, over his shoulder. "Why are you helping us, dh’oine?" Isengrim asked when they crossed through the tree line. 

And that was the million oren question. "I have to. Without saving you, I don't want to imagine what will happen in the future. You're  _ destined  _ to survive this. Both of you." He knew it was a poor answer, but he couldn’t find words to explain why he had just committed treason and condemned his king to death. He honestly didn’t know if he could ever begin to explain it when he didn't completely understand it himself. "That's all I know. I'm sorry. It has to be enough for you right now."

Either Isengrim believed him, or he was desperate enough to get himself and Iorveth away from the Ravine (which Roche figured was actually the case), but he nodded with a heavy frown and led them through the trees.

Roche could still hear the executioners at the Ravine, they were shouting at each other, blaming one another for the escaped elves. "I think we're about to lose our lead." If it was him, he wouldn't have bothered taking up time blaming anyone, he would have taken off in pursuit. The handful of men didn't seem to be so inclined. 

The Iron Wolf turned his head while they kept walking, obviously focusing his superior hearing back at the men at the Ravine. "No. Something or someone has stopped them."

"I vote we keep going. Your friend isn't going to be anything other than a liability if they decide to follow us." Roche shifted his hold on Iorveth and felt a twinge of worry with just how light the elf on his shoulder was. He knew elves were naturally leaner than humans, but it seemed like Iorveth weighed less than he should and it made a thrill of worry creep down his spine. 

They traveled in uncomfortable silence, broken only by the soft sounds of the forest until they found a crossroads. Isengrim stopped and leveled Roche with an intense look. "There’s something  _ wrong _ about you. You don’t belong here. But I owe you my life; mine and his. I will ask you this: you knew to get us, you said we were important. Where do I need to go?" 

Roche wracked his brain. He didn't know much about the Iron Wolf, Isengrim Faoiltiarna. The only thing he knew was what he had heard from the spies who reported to him. "I don't know for sure. Honestly, I know more about him than I do about you," he answered with a tilt of his head to Iorveth. "All I know is that you head east. You uh," he paused and considered what would happen if he told Isengrim what he knew. Should he tell him and keep him on the same path he had taken last time, or would Destiny get him wherever he needed to be? But if he did, and Isengrim ended up elsewhere, would Dijkstra still end up as one of the Big Four? His head was swimming with what-if scenarios. "Fuck. From what I know, you need to look out for a man called Dijkstra. He could also be going by the name Sigi Reuven." He shrugged as much as he could. "He needs to go to Temeria and pick up his command again."

Isengrim frowned, Roche could see the hesitation in the stiff way he held himself. He could see a leader refusing to leave a man behind but knowing that he had to go down a different path. At that moment, Roche could see himself in the Iron Wolf. "I know you don't trust me, have no reason to trust a human, but I need to go back to Temeria myself. At least, I feel like that's where I need to be. I'll make sure he stays safe, at least until he's strong enough to make it safely on his own." He didn't intend to say it, but as soon as he spoke, he  _ knew  _ somewhere deep down, that he was making the right decision. 

The elf hesitated again before he reached out and put a hand on Iorveth's back. "He'll kill himself trying to kill you if he wakes up with just you around. We need to wake him up and treat his wounds and tell him what's happened."

Roche could see the logic in the elf’s words. He was charged by Destiny to save Isengrim and Iorveth, it wouldn't do anyone any good for Iorveth to die trying to kill a human right after avoiding execution. "Yeah. That, uh, that's a good idea." 

Together they set Iorveth down and Roche couldn’t help but wince. He had gotten face to face with Iorveth many times since their meeting outside Flotsam but he had never seen the elf look as gaunt as he was now. It was obvious he was starved and had been tortured by his captors. Roche was no stranger to torture both inflicting and suffering from it, whoever had done this knew exactly what they were doing; and was doing it for no reason but malicious intent. There was no other reason to break the bones of a man condemned to death as a peace offering between the Northern Kingdoms and Nilfgaard who would have no new information to turn over. 

Roche took a step back and let Isengrim wake Iorveth while he dug in his pack. Dandelion said it had everything he would need. He found bandages and tools to make a splint and a sling. "Broken ankle and a fracture in his shoulder? I've got enough to keep him wrapped up for weeks." He looked up to check on the elves and saw Iorveth was awake and looking right at him. Roche swallowed audibly and thought,  _ even half-dead, he's still fucking beautiful.  _ "You're safe," Roche said, keeping his voice pitched low and soothing, staying where he was to stay out of lunging range. He had once seen Iorveth kill someone with his thighs, he wasn’t getting too close. 

Isengrim took the bandages from his hands and started talking to Iorveth in Elder. He didn’t know the exact words but he could guess. He could see the agony of loss, the guilt, the anger, and settling on confusion as Isengrim obviously started talking about him. He knew what  _ dh’oine  _ meant, normally because it was part of an insult that he took to mean stupid or bloody human. He wasn’t sure, but he got the gist. 

Once all his wounds were cleaned and bandaged the quiet conversation came to a stop and an awkward silence descended on the unlikely trio, Roche started fidgeting. "I think we should get as far away from here as quickly as possible. Um, I -" he stopped and closed his mouth after a sharp glare from Iorveth. 

"Stop moving," Isengrim barked out. Roche’s first reaction was to shoot back an indignant  _ I'm not! _ until he realized Isengrim wasn't talking to him. "You’re not going to make it without help, Iorveth. You need to rely on the human until you've healed, at least." Roche knew Isengrim was speaking in Common only for his benefit, and they were clearly done speaking about anything they didn't want him to know. "He saved our lives, he’d be stupid to kill you after he risked his own life."

Iorveth growled and glared. How someone with only one eye could manage such a glare had always impressed Roche; as close as he was now, he could understand why some surrendered as soon as they caught sight of Iorveth’s glare. "Don't have a choice, do I?" Iorveth grumped. 

Roche bit back a laugh at how quickly the glare melted away and turned into a petulant pout. He felt something in his stomach swoop, the same feeling he got when he fell into the Pontar once in his youth - the sense of freefall.  _ Oh fuck, _ he cursed inwardly.  _ I am so fucked. _

  
  


VI.

  
  


"So," Iorveth drawled out, holding onto the vowel long enough that Roche thought for a moment about knocking him out and carrying him for the rest of the day. 

"So what?" 

"So what's your deal? Isengrim said you helped us but why?" Iorveth actually sounded curious. 

Roche shook his head as best he could with Iorveth’s arm slung across his shoulders and resting heavily on the back of his neck. "Because I needed to. You’re telling me you've never done something because you just knew, deep down, that you had to? Maybe that's a human thing." He knew it wasn't, Dandelion wouldn't need Iorveth alive if he wasn't important to Destiny and led down a specific path, but this knowledge didn't stop him from trying to needle Iorveth. 

Just because he was supposed to save Iorveth's life didn't mean they were suddenly friends. Just because Roche couldn’t stop thinking that Iorveth was gorgeous, he knew nothing would ever come of it, so there was no reason to be anything other than just civil enough that they didn't try to slit each other's throats while they slept. 

"It’s not," Iorveth said after a long time. "I knew I needed to be whatever my people needed me to be to protect them," Iorveth cut himself off as if he realized he was giving away more about himself than he intended. 

"You do what you can to keep them safe, even if you hate yourself for it." He wasn’t speaking from experience, he  _ wasn’t.  _

Iorveth hummed lowly and then huffed in annoyance. "I’ve been calling you dh’oine in my head and I know that you know my name. What should I call you?" It sounded like it was painful to get the question out. 

"Call me Vernon." He didn't know what Iorveth knew about Termerian special forces, but he didn’t want to risk giving his last name in the case that was all the Scoia’tael knew about him. He knew, in theory, that they managed not to kill each other since he was able to be brought back in time, but he wasn’t sure enough that he would give away anything that could possibly change the future (as much as he wishes he could go back and fix so many things). 

"Vernon," Iorveth repeated, rolling the name around like he was trying to get it to fit in his mouth. "Tell me,  _ Vernon _ , how a man from Temeria ends up this far from home."

"How did you know I was from Temeria?"

Iorveth rolled his eye so hard it looked like it hurt. "Your accent. I've been around long enough to understand the nuances of your speech."

Roche was impressed. He didn't want to be, but he was. "You won't believe it, but I’m here to help you and Isengrim escape."

"You’re right, I don't believe it."

Roche shrugged. "I can't make you. But I can make you stop and rest for now. You’re so skinny I think I have a bruise from your bony shoulder digging into mine."

Iorveth huffed, obviously insulted, but he didn’t complain when Roche helped him sit down against a tree. "While we're still so close to Cintra I'm not risking a fire so we're going to have to cope with jerky." 

He dug through his pack and pulled out two blankets and some dried venison. He rolled out one of the blankets to hand over to Iorveth when a familiar crimson bandana fell out. "This pack really does have everything we need," he muttered to himself. "Every etching I've seen of you has a bandana. If you don’t want it, I'll put it back, but maybe something familiar will help. I know it's not exactly an inconspicuous color, but maybe it'll keep you from being recognized from a distance."

"I know it's grotesque, I'll cover it if my scars bother you so much, but you don't need to lie," Iorveth sounded hurt as he turned his face away from Roche, some deep lack of self-esteem rearing up. 

Roche jumped as if he had been stabbed with one of Ves’s throwing knives. "Honestly? I didn't really even notice them. I knew they were there, I've heard the stories about how you came back from something that should have killed you. Scars are part of life when you're fighting for your freedom."

He was used to scars, he had more than his share of them. He assumed elves would find them to be ugly, and they  _ were _ jarring if you didn't understand - but Roche didn’t see them as ugly and he knew what they stood for, what having them could mean to someone’s sense of worth.

Iorveth shoved the bandana on his head and pulled it down until it covered as much of the right side of his face as possible. “Ta-da. I’m not as ugly anymore.” 

Roche frowned and sat for a moment, trying to figure out a way to bring Iorveth out of his obvious mauldin thoughts. It was unnerving even if it was understandable when he took into consideration the amount of pain Iorveth had endured. “Eh,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve yet to see an ugly elf.” Roche figured it wouldn’t hurt to boost Iorveth up, and he got to say what he was thinking without the elf believing a word. 

The elf’s head turned so quickly towards Roche, he wondered if Iorveth hadn’t broken his neck. “What?” 

“Calm your pointed ears. You heard me.” He smiled defiantly and turned to the jerky he had portioned out for himself, pointedly taking a bite. 

“Bloede dh’oine,” Iorveth groused before he followed suit and tucked into his rations. 

\----

“Vernon.”

Roche ignored the elf which took plenty of effort as he was leaning most of his weight against Roche. 

“Vernon.”

“...”

“Vernon. You can’t ignore me forever.” Iorveth tapped his fingers in a familiar rhythm against Roche’s shoulder. Still, he tried to ignore the obvious baiting technique. If Iorveth wanted to torture him, he had a long way to go. Roche had learned to tune out Shorty when he started talking about his kids and there were sixteen, Alpha through Papa, Iorveth didn’t stand a chance. “Vernon. You should steal me a horse.” 

“For the twelfth time today, I’m not stealing you a fucking horse.” Just because he could endure it, didn’t mean he was going to just let Iorveth go without firing back every once in a while.

“Are you  _ counting _ ?”

\----

He knew he was dreaming. It hadn’t been obvious at first, but once his surroundings came into focus, he knew. There was no way that he was in a meadow of soft grass with flowers that looked like they belonged in a fairytale. “This is idyllic. This definitely didn’t come from my mind.” He sat down and basked in the sunlight while he waited.

“Oh good, you’re here!” 

Dandelion. Roche was right - he was dreaming, and Dandelion was manipulating his dreams. “What’s wrong?” He felt something clench tight in his chest and part of him looked around for a way to wake up so he could be ready for anything.

“Oh! Nothing’s wrong. You’re doing perfectly.” Dandelion sat down next to Roche and waved a hand where a chessboard appeared. “I was just wondering if you’d like an explanation. I know I was rather vague before but we were pressed for time.” 

“Well, I’d like to know how the fuck I managed not to kill him -” 

Dandelion cut him off with a raspberry and a careless wave. “Lie.” Dandelion picked up a pawn and pushed it into Roche’s hands. “That’s a pawn. That’s most of humanity.”

“Are you using chess as a metaphor? You didn’t teach that to Radovid, did you?”

“Must you interrupt me? And yes, chess is a wonderful metaphor for life. So the board is your world. It’s layered, though. This board represents both your immediate situation and the bigger picture, okay? Keep that in mind for later. There are opposing forces battling for victory. Now, this is where my metaphor gets a little full of exposition again, but you need to know this.

“In the upcoming months, something is coming that could potentially wipe out everything.” Dandelion tapped the King on Roche’s side of the board and all the pieces turned to ice. “In order to stop this, there are certain pieces we must sacrifice, and certain pieces we must protect. Some pieces are more suited for both sacrifice and protection. In my metaphor, you are the Knight. You’re the only piece on the board that can ‘jump’. Are you following me?”

Roche frowned and picked up the King’s side knight on the opposite side of the board. There was something unnatural and  _ wrong _ with the icy pieces on his side and he wasn’t about to touch them. “I assume I’m not a pawn because you decided I’m necessary in the big picture? And I’m a knight because I move in a unique pattern, a guerilla soldier fighting outside any king’s rule, and I’ve ‘jumped’ pieces by being pulled back in time.” 

Dandelion beamed at him. “This is why I like you, Roche. You understand so much more than you think you do. Now, the part I can’t elaborate too much on: you must protect the king.” Dandelion stood up with a glance into the darkness surrounding the meadow. “I have to go, Dear Heart.” 

Before Dandelion crossed over into the darkness he turned towards Roche again. “Protect your king, Vernon Roche, he’s vulnerable and exposed right now.” 

With his cryptic parting words, Dandelion threw the King at him, pegging him right above his heart.

Roche jerked awake and reached for his sword before he remembered he wasn’t being attacked and Dandelion only appeared to him in a dream. He hadn’t really thrown anything at him.

_ Thwack. _

“What the fuck?” he growled, looking around their camp for an attack. 

“Vernon, wake up! It’s your turn to keep watch,” Iorveth called from where he was perched against the trunk of a tree across the fire. 

“Are you throwing acorns at me?” Roche sputtered, flinching away from another projectile. “Fucking Squirrel.” 

“You weren’t waking up and it’s my turn to sleep,” Iorveth pouted at him, the fire throwing the angles of his face into sharp relief. 

Roche picked up an acorn and lobbed it over the fire where it landed on Iorveth’s head and dropped down the back of his shirt. “Go to sleep, then. Gods know you’re more of a pain in my ass than usual when you’re tired.”

Iorveth snuggled up under his blanket, careful of his wrist, shoulder, and ankle. “I wouldn’t be tired all the time if you’d just steal a horse for me.”

“Fuck you. I’m not stealing you a fucking horse.” 

“Can’t hear you. I’m asleep.”

“You’re such a  _ child _ .” 

“Asleep!”

\-----

Roche squinted at his pack, willing it to keep steady while he crawled back over to it to see if they had any more liquor. 

“Vernon. Vernon.  _ Vernon, _ ” Iorveth whispered, loudly from where he was laying spread-eagle near the fire, flapping his recently healed arm around like some kind of manic bird. “Vernon, get more liquor. Your magic bag has everything.” 

Roche rolled over to watch Iorveth wave his hands around and be a menace. “You’re obnoxious. It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” Roche complained with an overly fond smile. 

“You know, for a dh’oine, you’re not too bad, Vernon. ‘Cept you won’t steal me a fucking horse. My ankle ‘s  _ broken _ , Vernon. Have you no heart?” By now Roche was completely used to Iorveth’s theatrics - while sober. 

Drunk Roche was having a hard time remembering why he wasn’t telling Iorveth that he was dead serious when he called him pretty. Drunk Roche was also perilously close to giving in and stealing a horse for his ridiculous elf. “Ior, I love how you can com-com-fucking  _ compliment _ me and then ‘nsult me right af’er. ‘N I’m not stealin’ you a fuckin’ horse.”

Iorveth rolled closer to Roche and leaned over him to dig around in the bag. “You’re drunk. You can’t be ‘sponstible for finding more liquor.”

“Wow, your face is really pretty. Your everything is really pretty. Can I touch your hair? I know that’s a  _ thing _ , but it looks so soft.” Roche reached out to touch but stopped just short of touching Iorveth’s face. He was drunk, but he knew better than to touch lest he wakes up with broken fingers, if he woke up at all. 

Iorveth hummed and relaxed against Roche’s chest. “Okay. But ‘m gonna sleep. You’re so warm ‘n comfy.” 

The search for more liquor forgotten, Iorveth relaxed further and a low rumbling echoed deep in his chest when Roche first ran his fingers through his dark hair. “You’re purring,” Roche heard himself say, wonder clear in his tone. “You’re pretty and you purr when I pet your hair. This is awesome. You’re a ‘fectionate drunk.”

“Shut up and play with my hair.”

“Kay.”

\----

Roche sat up and cursed himself for drinking so much the night before, especially with how clingy and mouthy he got. “Fuck, I’m never drinking again.” 

He blinked and squinted against the dappled sunlight coming through the trees and noticed he was alone. He was certain he had fallen asleep playing with Iorveth’s hair as the elf fell asleep on his chest, but the lack of elf anywhere was making him think it was all a pleasant dream. 

“Good morning, Vernon. Hope you slept well?” Iorveth asked, a sing-songy tone to his voice.

Roche could practically hear the smarmy grin on the elf’s face. He turned and saw Iorveth sitting astride a bay mare like he was born to be on horseback. “Her name is Sileny and we’ve bonded while you slept like a dead thing.”

Roche squinted at Iorveth again and noticed how he was fidgeting like he had been waiting a long time to irritate him. “You twat, you stole a horse and then gave it some pretentious-ass name.” 

Iorveth harumphed and crossed his arms over his chest with his nose in the air. “To be fair, you weren’t involved, I stole her, not you. I know you’re too good for that.” 

Something like rage started simmering in Roche’s chest. He stood up slowly and ignored the way the world seemed to lurch under his feet as his head throbbed with a hangover headache. “Are you insane? Did you fucking crawl all the way to wherever you got her from?” he asked through his teeth, his jaw clenched tight.

The hesitation before Iorveth opened his mouth to answer told Roche everything. “Not exactly?”

He carefully walked closer to Iorveth and his pretentious horse to help Iorveth down. “What does that mean? Why is your ass covered in mud?”

The reply was mumbled too low for Roche to hear, but he got the gist anyway. “So, you decided to, what, stick it to me and go steal a fucking horse instead of waiting until we were close to a decent-sized city where I could’ve bought you one?”

Iorveth shook his head in disbelief. “Why are you so angry about me stealing the horse? I know you’re  _ too good _ for that shit, but I’m tired of feeling like a fucking burden. I’m either leaning on you or you’ve got to carry me. I’m not an invalid!” 

The rage boiled over. “Because you could’ve gotten hurt! You could’ve been caught! Did you think about that? That you could’ve been fucking cut down like a dog because your drunk ass decided that I was too fucking noble to do something that would’ve helped you? I didn’t want anyone else chasing us, Ior! That’s why I wanted to wait and just buy you one! Fuck! It’s not a big deal to help you out. I know you’re not an invalid! You - you’re - fuck.” He took a deep breath and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m going for a walk before I say anything I’ll regret. Don’t do anything else stupidly suicidal while I’m gone.”

Roche stomped off away from their campsite. He was shaking with fury, not just at Iorveth but at himself for giving away too much. He paced and tried to burn away his anger without going too far away from camp. “Stupid fucking Squirrel. I can’t believe - could’ve broken his fucking neck - could’ve been captured.” He let out a pent-up yell and punched a tree. “Fuck, that was stupid.” 

He shook out his throbbing hand and ignored the splits across his knuckles in favor of controlling his breathing. “Fuck, gotta keep my stupid mouth shut before I ruin everything. Keep it together. Almost blew it last night, almost blew it again.” He didn’t notice the tears that spilled over while he berated himself, but they traced the curve of his cheek and dropped onto his shirt.

By the time he felt more in control and not about to lose his composure the sun way high in the sky. He walked back to the campsite to find it packed away and Iorveth leaning against a tree reading a book Roche didn’t realize they had in the pack - but, the bottomless bag had everything else they needed so why wouldn’t it have a book in it (he was half convinced if they’d dug around enough they would’ve found Iorveth a horse). 

Iorveth snapped the book closed and turned quickly towards Roche, some unknowable emotion on his beautifully ageless face. “Save it,” he croaked out with a harsh shake of his head. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. Let’s get going before we’ve wasted the entire day.” Iorveth closed his mouth on whatever he was going to say and nodded with a small frown before he pulled himself to stand and hobbled over to the mare who stood still while Iorveth struggled to climb up onto her back. 

No matter how angry he was, and he was still  _ incredibly  _ angry, Roche still couldn’t watch Iorveth struggle. “Hold still,” he said stiffly and boosted Iorveth up. The close contact soothed something in him, something that still soured his insides with worry and fear even though he knew that Iorveth hadn’t gotten seriously hurt or caught. 

  
  


\----

The silence hung heavy between them for days. Neither seemed willing to break it except for short statements. It started to grate on Roche’s nerves but he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. If they did, he knew he would soon lose his iron grip on his feelings; feelings that he  _ knew  _ they could do nothing about. 

It brought his guilt up front and center. They had built up a kind of friendship, he knew it wouldn’t last; but until they passed like two ships in the night, he had wanted to enjoy having someone who challenged him, annoyed and infuriated him, and made him feel like he could just be himself. Here, following deer trails through the woods to keep out of sight, they were in their own little world where they could be Vernon and Iorveth who weren’t opposites and bitter rivals, but friends brought together by Destiny. 

Roche was so absorbed in his thoughts he didn’t notice Iorveth stopped Sileny until he was several paces ahead.

“Are you okay?” he asked before he could remember that he wasn’t talking to Iorveth outside of stopping them to set up camp. 

Iorveth was looking down at his hands which were putting a small braid in his horse’s mane. 

_ If he wants to play the waiting game, we’re going to stand here until I get old and die,  _ Roche thought to himself even as he refused to break the silence again. 

Finally, Iorveth shook his head. “Not really. ‘M sorry,” he said to his horse’s neck, still trying to avoid eye contact. It was more unnerving than the intense stare he was known for. In all the times Roche had found himself fighting Iorveth and his Scoia’tael he had never backed down from eye contact. Even lacking an eye, he had more power in his thousand-yard stare than anyone else Roche had ever met. 

“I’m not used to being around anyone who cares about me as a person instead of a symbol. Before you broke Isengrim and I out, I hadn’t had any contact with anyone who wasn’t trying to break me since the last war ended.” Iorveth stopped and heaved a sigh before he slid off his mare with more grace than he had shown days before. 

Roche got the hint and hurried over to Iorveth’s side, ready to help should the elf need it. He stayed still and silent while Iorveth patted Sileny’s neck. “I’ve been a freedom fighter for longer than you’ve been alive, an officer serving under Nilfgaard, a prisoner of war - I forgot what it was to just be me. You’ve allowed me to be me. It was enough to forget that I’ve got a target on my back and an axe hanging over my neck.” 

Comfort wasn’t something Roche had ever been good at giving, but he could tell when someone needed it, and the way Iorveth’s arms were now wrapped around his own chest like he was trying to hold himself together was as obvious as anything he had ever seen. He took a cautious step forward and closed the gap between them and hugged his friend. It was difficult to maneuver as Iorveth was taller than him, but Roche let the elf hide his face in his shoulder.

Roche rubbed small circles on Iorveth’s back, letting his hands snake under the loose shirt to give him the comfort of skin contact. “Honestly? I was thinking of something very similar earlier. It’s like we live in this bubble but it’s in danger of popping at any time,” he whispered, afraid to speak any louder and disturb the fragile peace they had created. With the hand not against Iorveth’s back, he tugged the bandana away so he could run his fingers through Iorveth’s hair like he had wanted to do since the other night when he drank enough to man up and ask to play with the soft dark hair.

When he pulled back from the hug to give them some space, he felt his heart break. The uncomfortable, self-conscious and completely vulnerable look was on Iorveth’s face again. It took a moment to realize it was because the crimson bandana Roche hadn’t seen Iorveth without since he had given it to him was on the ground by their feet. Iorveth kept his head down and turned slightly to one side, hiding his scars and missing eye as best he could.

_ Fuck. Way to go, asshole _ . 

Even as he berated himself he reached out again. This time, instead of going for a hug, he reached out and gripped Iorveth’s chin gently to turn him so they were face to face. “What did I say, hmm?” 

“I’m a twat?” Iorveth answered with a question, obviously trying to make a self-deprecating joke to lighten the mood. It didn’t work. 

“While I did say that, and I stand by that statement, you and I both know that’s not what I was talking about,” he corrected gently, still not releasing his hold on Iorveth’s face. He let his eyes roam over every bit of Iorveth’s face before using his free hand to trace the sharp angles of distinctly elven features. 

Iorveth shook his head and didn’t answer. As if he wasn’t able to handle whatever he could see on Roche’s face, Iorveth closed his eye and bit down on his bottom lip. 

Roche rescued the abused lip but allowed him to keep his eye closed. “What I was referencing was when I told you I had yet to meet an ugly elf. Did you think you weren’t included in that statement?” Iorveth laughed, the sound devoid of any humor. “I’ll keep telling you that until you believe me.” 

“Find a way to live for a few more centuries then, dh’oine.” 

Roche tutted the use of Elder. “You’ve not called me anything other than my name in weeks. Don’t stop now.” 

Iorveth whined something high and desperate-sounding. Roche found himself tugging maneuvering them again until he could wrap an arm around Iorveth’s slim waist and keep the other on his face. “Vernon, please.” 

“Better. What do you need, Ior?” 

“More than you can give me.” The answer was whispered into Roche’s hand. 

Roche hummed and tapped a finger against the slight uptick at the edge of Iorveth’s upper lip, the very edge of the scar crossing the right side of his face. “Are you sure?”

“Very. But feel free to try and prove me wrong.” 

The challenge shocked a laugh out of him. “You are something else, Ior. I hope you know that.” He didn’t give Iorveth the chance to answer or to break the charged atmosphere. He stood up on his toes and brushed a series of soft kisses across the jagged scar tissue before slowly, ever so slowly, he made his way to Iorveth’s softly parted lips. 

The high and desperate sound was back, Roche swallowed it down before he found himself moving quickly. In an impressive display of strength, Iorveth had him pinned against a nearby tree with his hands cupping Roche’s jaw and their legs tangled together. Roche could feel how all Iorveth’s weight was resting on one foot and he felt a surge of guilt. 

“Wait,” he managed to gasp out between searing kisses. “While I am - hold on a minute - fuck, your  _ mouth _ -” Iorveth finally relented and seemed to content himself with sucking a mark into the juncture between Roche’s neck and shoulder, a particularly  _ sensitive  _ spot. “While I am more than happy to let you manhandle me, let me hold you up for now?” Iorveth hummed and nodded without letting go of the patch of skin he was focused on marking. 

It was as much permission as he was likely to get with Iorveth’s single-minded focus on his neck. He pushed forward a little, not enough to dislodge Iorveth, but enough to get his feet under him so they didn’t fall over and kill the mood. “Hold on, gorgeous,” he breathed out before he got his hands around Iorveth’s thighs and hoisted him up only to turn and press his elf against the tree. “There. Much better.” 

“Stop talking and kiss me,” Iorveth demanded, finally having shifted his attention away from  _ that spot _ on Roche’s neck. “Found a good spot, did I?” Iorveth teased with a wiggle of his hips. 

“Shut up,” Roche growled out with a sharp thrust of his hips. He smiled to himself at the gasp he stole from Iorveth’s lips. 

As loathed as he was to stop, he pulled away from Iorveth enough to raise a finger to the elf’s lips. “As much as I would love to keep going, if we’re going to do this, we are absolutely not fucking in the woods the first time I get to have you spread out for me, okay? After that, yeah, we can fuck against every fucking tree in the woods for all I care. But - let me do this right?” 

He chanced a glance up and almost,  _ almost  _ changed his mind if only to find out just how far down the dark flush went, whether the vine tattoo or the flush would stop first. “Fuck, you look -” he nosed against the pounding pulse covered by the very same tattoo he wanted to trace with his tongue. 

“I feel like we owe your horse an apology, Ior,” Roche said much later when he had finally found the strength to let Iorveth down. 

The bright laughter that followed was well worth breaking the mood further.

\----

He was about to vibrate out of his skin. 

“That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.” Roche stopped walking and held out a hand to catch Iorveth’s calf before he could get left behind by horse and rider. 

The deep sigh was enough to tell him that he wasn’t the only one who was holding onto his control by a thread. 

“If my sense of direction is anything to go off of, we’ve officially crossed into Temeria and we shouldn’t be too far outside of, well not one of the  _ best _ places in the country, but not the worst.” Roche rubbed his thumb against Iorveth’s calf. “You stay here for now, I’m going to do some scouting, keep an ear out to make sure they’re not looking for you, and then I’ll come back for you. We can sleep in a real bed and have real food for once.” 

Iorveth laughed brightly again. “Go on then, go find out if I can finally climb you like a fucking tree.” 

Roche waved him off to hide his blush. “Please, you’ve been making this nothing but difficult. Here I’m trying to be a gentleman and not throw you on the ground and have my way with you.” He hid his wicked smile in his shoulder when he heard a poorly-concealed whimper. 

“You’re the one who is insisting on it. I’ve no problem being thoroughly ravaged right here,” Iorveth said with a shrug and a sarcastic pat to the top of Roche’s head. “But no, my human is holding on to some odd sense of dignity and -” Roche cut off Iorveth’s complaining with a quick pinch. Iorveth yelped and glared down at him. 

He rolled his eyes up to meet Iorveth’s glare. “Let me have this, please? I’ve never really gotten to take my time and really worship a lover before. I want to treat you like a king.”

That shut Iorveth up for a moment, the tips of his pointed ears burning bright red. “Fine, fine. Go on but hurry back or I’m going to start without you.”

“Do it and I’ll tie you up.” 

With the last word his, Roche heard what could only be described as a squeak as he walked away.

“Something to think about in the future.” He felt some of the urgent flames die down as if he had been doused in cold water. They didn’t have a future. He wouldn’t see Iorveth for another year, but it wouldn’t really be him - not the Roche who belonged to Iorveth but as two commanders on opposing sides.  _ He  _ would likely never see Iorveth again.

He would make the most of the time they had left. They were in Temeria now and after several weeks, Iorveth’s ankle was mostly healed - and he had his horse to carry him if necessary. Roche knew Dandelion could show up at any moment. He did what he needed to - he rescued Isengrim and Iorveth from execution and he managed to get Iorveth back into Temeria. Any point from now on, Iorveth could manage on his own. 

Selfishly, he hoped Dandelion would forget about him and leave him right where he was. There was still another version of him around to carry out whatever else Destiny had in mind for Vernon Roche. Maybe this version could rest and enjoy learning every way to make his elf sigh and scream. Maybe they could learn to be themselves instead of what other people needed them to be. 

Everything about the last few weeks had been perfect, even their fight had felt like a dream because it ended with a soft apology and softer, hungrier kisses. They saw no monsters, no bandits, no soldiers, nothing. They hadn’t needed to hope the magic pack had a tent hidden in it - but now that the idea popped into his head, he was annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it before. Still, he would have insisted on waiting for a real bed. Next time the tent would be fine if it was needed. 

The closer to the town he got, the more the sinking feeling crept into his gut. Before he could get close enough that someone could see him come through the trees he stopped. He twisted his fingers together and stood in place for an age. Something was telling him that if we went to the inn to ask for a room that he would regret it.

Roche wasn’t sure if it was a gentle nudge from Dandelion or something dark and primal telling him to stay away and go back to Iorveth. 

He listened to whatever it was and fled back into the forest, his steps whisper-quiet on the thick layer of fallen pine needles as he hurried back the way he came. 

Iorveth didn’t judge him, didn’t even look disappointed. He just put the book he had been reading down and opened his arms so Roche could get as close to his elf as possible, to be bracketed by long limbs and the feeling of  _ safe _ and  _ home _ and  _ love  _ wrapped up in one person. 

"What happened, Vernon? You came back looking like you had seen a wraith," Iorveth asked into Roche’s hair before he nosed at the back of his neck.

Roche shook his head and took ahold of both of Iorveth’s hands. Their hands were so different but made for the same thing and both stained with too much blood - made monsters so no one else would have to be. "Nothing, per se. I had a bad feeling that I couldn't shake like we'd regret it if I went into town."

"Well, it's a good thing you came back to me, then." 

Without warning, he felt burning behind his eyes and had to swallow the lump in his throat. "Course I came back to you," he said, voice cracking like an adolescent. 

It was the worry that caused the tears to slip out against his will. Roche curled up in Iorveth’s arms and hid his tears against the soft material of Iorveth’s shirt. If Iorveth was surprised or confused he hid it behind soft humming, his vocal cords rumbling low to soothe Roche as he fell apart. 

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep, but he woke in Iorveth's arms feeling warm and safe in a way he hadn’t felt since his mother held him as a child. But this was different, there was something else, something different curling around his heart.  _ Fuck. I love him.  _

"Feeling better?" Iorveth asked, still curled around Roche to help him keep himself together even as he had fallen apart before. 

"Not really."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Iorveth's question was soft and low, rumbling across Roche’s back and side where he was pressed up against his elf. 

"Not really. What I want is to dig around and see if my magic pack is s magical as we've joked about and find a tent. I want to feel like we've got something keeping us safe. And then I want to fall asleep next to you and just pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist for a few hours. I just want you, Ior."

Roche felt Iorveth nod against him before he was left sitting on his own while Iorveth dug around in the pack. "Have a drink," Iorveth coaxed, handing over a water skin. "I'll get the tent set up."

He felt Iorveth drop a kiss to the top of his head before he wandered away to set the tent up. 

Before he knew it, Roche felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Vernon. Let's go to bed. Let me take care of you tonight." 

Roche nodded and crawled into the tent, unable to find the strength or motivation to stand and walk. He kicked his boots off and flopped back onto the bedrolls that had been pushed together. "None of that, now. We're going to get as comfortable as possible." He made some kind of noise that Iorveth was able to interpret as an agreement. The elf hummed the same melody from earlier and managed to maneuver Roche enough to get him out of his clothes before getting rid of his own. 

"'M not gonna be able - I  _ can't  _ -" he muttered, shame burning hot and stopping his confession in his throat."

"No, I know, Vernon. Skin on skin contact is good for you. You want to forget about the world outside of us? Then let's only have us here," Iorveth hurriedly said once Roche lost his words, one trembling hand slowly combing through the waves of Roche's grown-out hair. "You asked me to let you do this right. You're not the only one who would like the same chance, Vernon."

Roche felt tears well up again but they didn't burn this time, and the humiliating feeling of shame was washed away with Iorveth’s plea for a chance. 

The elf made a concerned noise at his tears. "What is it? What did I say?"

Roche shook his head and wrapped his arms around Iorveth’s chest, part of him aware and happy that he could no longer see each individual rib. "No, you didn't - there's nothing - these are good tears. Promise."

They settled back onto the bedrolls, Iorveth curled protectively around Roche, their fingers linked together and resting against Roche’s chest, right above his heart. 

"Thank you for letting me love you."

\----

A day. They managed a day before Roche threw an apologetic smile Iorveth’s way across the campfire before he got up and stalked towards the elf, intentions clear as crystal. “What happened to waiting?” Iorveth teased before he was pushed into his back with a nudge. 

“I’m only human, darling. I’ll write you a sonnet or get you some flowers or whatever it is you want as an apology, but I  _ really _ just need -”

Roche was straddling Iorveth’s slim hips but he kept his hands to himself even as the itch to touch became almost unbearable. Iorveth, either having the same itch or taking pity on Roche, reached up and wrapped slim fingers around the back of Roche’s neck and tugged, bringing them face to face. “Tell me: what do you need, Vernon?” 

There was very little space between them and Roche would call himself a fool for the rest of his days if he didn’t take advantage. “I need -” kiss. “ - you.” Another kiss. “I need to see what you look like when you come.” Kiss. “I had you naked and wrapped around me and I didn’t even get to see how far this tattoo -” kiss “ - or this flush “ one final kiss “ - goes.” 

In the blink of an eye, Roche found himself on his back, their positions reversed so he was given the perfect vantage point to watch otherworldly beautiful skin be revealed. “I can help with that,” Iorveth answered with a wicked smile, the fire throwing shadows across his face. 

\----

“Again?” Roche heard himself ask with an incredulous laugh. 

Insistent fingers pulling at the ties of his pants was his only answer for a long moment until the same fingers, cooler than his own, wrapped around his very interested cock. “I don’t hear you complaining,” Iorveth rumbled, Roche feeling his reply as much as hearing it from the way the elf had all but plastered himself to Roche’s back. 

“‘M not,” he managed to reply. “Just thought elves weren’t supposed to have such - oh, fuck, just like that - have such active libidos.” He turned his head to press an uncoordinated kiss to whatever part of Iorveth’s face he could manage. 

A deft twist of a wrist. Teeth clamped against the meat of his shoulder. The delicate but lethal body of his lover behind him. Roche figured if he died right now, he’d be a happy man. 

“Lies and slander.” Roche could hear the hitch in Iorveth’s breathing and he realized Iorveth was getting off on getting him off. He had struck gold. “Come for me, Vernon,” the elf demanded and Roche couldn’t stop himself from following the order even if he wanted to. 

He blacked out for a moment, slumped back against Iorveth’s chest until his heartbeat slowed to normal and the thunder of his pulse in his ears subsided. He turned to face his lover just in time to watch Iorveth lick his fingers clean. “Oh fuck,” he groaned out, his cock giving a valiant twitch of interest, but he wasn’t a young man anymore and there was no way he could get it back up so soon without his heart exploding. 

Iorveth hummed and sucked on each of his fingers like he knew exactly how it looked and was enjoying it. “Maybe later,  _ dh’oine. _ ” Before now, he would have snarled at the use of Elder, even though he knew it only meant ‘human’, but now Iorveth used it as an endearment, and if Roche wasn’t careful it was going to become a  _ thing _ for him. 

Being the considerate lover he was, Iorveth put Roche’s pants to rights before he stepped away, but not before slapping Roche’s ass. “Come on, Vernon. We’re wasting daylight,” Iorveth said as he swung himself up onto his mare, unconcerned with the mess in his own trousers.

“Watch yourself, Squirrel. I’m going to get you back for that.”

From his perch on Sileny, Iorveth grinned wickedly. “I’m counting on it.”

\----

Roche studied the remains of their fire as they ate a cold breakfast wrapped up together in their blankets. “I’ve been keeping track of the days,” he said, still looking at the ashes carefully contained behind a circle of rocks. “I don’t know if the Aen Seidhe do anything for it, but today is Samhain. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to do something tonight. We could probably even head to the main road and spend the evening in town. You could probably get away with wearing a hat or a hood to hide your ears.”

Next to him, Iorveth shifted closer and dropped his head onto Roche’s shoulder. “We have something similar, yes. The root of your holiday is similar to ours, I think. A celebration of the harvest and the dead. To light fires to repent the sun’s powers. Right?”

One day, Roche reckoned, he’d stop being surprised by Iorveth. “Yeah. I want to focus on the idea of burning away harmful stuff. Maybe let myself think about the friends I’ve lost because of the war.” Technically, the people he most wanted to remember were currently still alive, but in the time Roche belonged in (the time he was still hoping to never have to go back to) they were dead. His friends. His commandos. His  _ family _ . 

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea, Vernon. If you think we can do so safely, I wouldn’t mind spending the evening celebrating with others as long as I get to stay with you.”

Roche felt himself blush. “You’re a sap. What would everyone think if they knew you were as fluffy as sheep’s wool on the inside?” He was deflecting from his feelings, and he was sure Iorveth could see through it; but if he didn’t try and stamp down his feelings, Roche was worried he’d say something incredibly stupid.

Iorveth played along. “They’d never believe you,” he answered and stood up gracefully. 

Roche could see how Iorveth no longer favored one foot over the other and he knew, deep down, that their time together was drawing to a close. Instead of allowing himself to be sad about it (any more than he already was), he was determined to make whatever time they had left the best time of their lives. 

The sounds of preparation reached them soon after midday. “Why don’t you stay here, I’m going -” he fumbled for an excuse. He knew that he could just dig in the pack until he found a cloak with a hood, but he also wanted a minute to himself so he could search for a merchant or a market. Iorveth hummed and poked him with the toe of his boot to prompt him along. “I want to check it out, just in case. And uh, I maybe want to - Iwanttogetyousomething.” He rushed the last words out so quickly they ran together in a jumbled mess. He shuffled around, awkward in a way he’s never been in his life, and squared his shoulders. “Give me a few hours. I made a promise and I fully intend to keep it.” 

He tugged on Iorveth’s sleeve until the elf leaned close enough that Roche could stand up on his tiptoes and kiss him. It was a chaste kiss in comparison, but it still sent a thrill of want racing down his spine. “Be safe,  _ me dh’oine _ , I’d hate to have anything happen to you. I’ve put a lot of work into this and I just don’t have the patience to start again with anyone else.” 

The aloof statement was ruined by the soft look on Iorveth’s face and how the green of his iris seemed even brighter than usual - sparkling as if it was a mirror to whatever Iorveth was feeling. “Of course, Squirrel. You stay safe too, okay? Sileny is in charge while I’m gone.”

He couldn’t help grinning as he hurried away, leaving Iorveth cursing at him from his perch on his mare. 

\--

No one looked twice at him when he came into town. Not for the first time he was glad he was unrecognizable outside his unit. No one knew who Vernon Roche was. No one outside Foltest and a few select commanders even knew of the Blue Stripes. 

The anonymity was a refreshing relief. He still kept his eyes and ears out for any word about soldiers or escaped convicts; but the longer he slowly walked down the main road without word of anything outside the preparations for the bonfires after sunset, the more he felt himself relax. 

Roche stopped in front of a merchant’s stall as he saw the perfect gift for Iorveth out of the corner of his eye. “How much for the flute?” he asked, knowing that he’d hand over whatever the merchant asked for. 

“Do you play?” 

Roche felt himself blush. “Uh no. But my - my” he paused for a moment, trying to come up with a word to explain his relationship with Iorveth to a total stranger. He realized after just a seconds pause that it didn’t matter. After today, he’d likely never see this man again, why should Roche care what he thought? “My paramour plays.” 

_ Paramour? I sound like a pretentious twat. _ He felt something warm and comfortable settle in his chest before he almost broke down with laughter by thinking about how Iorveth was rubbing off on him which sent his mind spiraling into the gutter. 

Somehow he managed to keep his laughter in check and paid for the flute and a hooded cloak to keep Iorveth’s ears hidden (and keep him safe from any non-human hatred) without making a fool of himself. 

\--

Roche found himself tackled to the ground with a lap full of elf after he presented the cloak and flute to Iorveth with a flourish. 

Tears clung to Iorveth’s unfairly long eyelashes as he reverently traced his fingers along the flute before he brought it up to his lips and played a few bars of a familiar song Roche recognized but couldn’t place how he knew it. 

“How did you know I played?” Iorveth asked with an obvious waver in his voice.

Roche felt himself freeze. He wouldn’t know that Iorveth played, he had never mentioned it. There was no way that a nobody human would know anything about a Scoia’tael commander and war criminal. But there was also no way this same nobody human would know or care to rescue him from execution. 

He knew he could lie, come up with something to cover his blunder, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Do you remember back when we met and I said I had to rescue you and Isengrim? That feeling in my gut that told me what to do? The same thing led me to buy you that flute.” 

Iorveth looked between Roche and the flute before he set the instrument down out of the way and proceeded to rest against him. He squirmed around until he seemed to find a comfortable position and prompted Roche to hold him. “Thank you,  _ me minne _ . It’s perfect.” 

Roche wanted to ask what the Iorveth said, but he knew he wouldn’t get a response. At this point, it was like a game between them - Iorveth flat out refusing to tell him, and Roche making ridiculous guesses. But this one, this one he didn’t think he could do that to. There was something heavy and significant about the endearment, something that spoke to the depths of his soul. 

They rested together until the sun started it’s descent across the sky and the shadows lengthened. “Come on, Squirrel, we should head that way if we want to participate.” 

Iorveth stretched, his back bending in a graceful arch before he rolled off Roche and put his new cloak on. Roche sat up and reached out to adjust the hood to keep Iorveth’s ears hidden. “Do I look human now, Vernon?”

Roche snorted with laughter. “Ior, you’re too fucking beautiful to ever be mistaken for a human. But you’ll be able to blend in enough.”  _ Does he look human? Is he insane?  _

The pretty blush across the bridge of Iorveth’s nose was one of Roche’s favorite things he had discovered recently. He watched it darken and burn across Iorveth’s cheek, and were they uncovered, he knew the tips of his pointed ears would match. 

Together they retraced Roche’s earlier path into town where they could see fires up on the hills. They passed a group who were dancing with torches around a fire, divination stones by their quickly-moving feet, several people wearing masks, and an older woman passing hazelnuts out to the older children who laughed and ran towards a fire. “What is the significance of the hazelnuts?” Iorveth whispered to Roche as he watched the children make faces at the reaction of hazelnuts. 

“Do you want to try? It's supposed to tell you if the person you desire is a good match for you or not.” Roche had never gotten the chance to try the ritual, never having anyone he desired enough in his youth to dare get too close to the townsfolk who openly shunned him for being a fatherless whoreson. 

Iorveth’s eye sparkled and a small, secretive smile curled the edge of his full lips. “Please?” 

Roche nudged him towards the old woman, following a step behind in case anything went wrong. “May I?” Iorveth asked awkward and timid like he was a nervous adolescent who wanted to know if his first love would love him back. “Thank you.” 

They went over to a smaller fire, only one person staring into the flames with a forlorn expression on her face. “No luck?” Roche asked, trying to be polite but also hoping it would move her along. It wouldn’t help their ruse if it was made apparent Iorveth didn’t know about basic holiday traditions. 

The girl sighed and shook her head. “No. I hope you have better luck,” she said to them before walking away from the fire and leaving them alone. 

“The hazelnuts are named for you and the one you desire. Put them near the fire and wait. If they pop back away from the heat it’s a bad sign. If they start roasting, then it’s supposed to be a good match,” Roche explained and watched Iorveth do as he said. They crouched down and Iorveth silently placed the hazelnuts close to the open flames. 

As they waited for something to happen, somewhere behind them someone started to sing a song. It wasn’t anything traditional or even something Roche could recognize, but the musician's voice was haunting and fit the mood of the evening. 

(“ _ I’ll keep the King, When you are gone away. Into the darkness and howling, I’ll keep him from drowning... _ ”)

Roche watched Iorveth as the elf stared unblinkingly at the hazelnuts. He wanted to tease Iorveth about taking an old wive’s tale too seriously, but it was so endearing he could bring himself to do it. The nuts heated enough to cause a reaction and Roche had never heard of what happened. Instead of catching or being forced away from the heat, the pair seemed to jump as one before being set alight and then burning out almost immediately to show two perfectly roasted hazelnuts. 

Iorveth turned to Roche. “What does that reaction mean? You didn’t say anything about that.” He sounded concerned and sad like he assumed it would mean something bad. 

He reached out and took Iorveth’s hand and held it between both of his. “I don’t know, I’ve never heard of that. But it’s just a silly superstition, it doesn’t really mean anything.” 

Iorveth hummed and nodded but didn’t seem reassured. 

The song Roche had all but tuned out seemed to be coming from closer than before, the style terribly familiar now that he couldn’t help but give it his full attention. “No,” Roche gasped, dread breaking open a deep fissure in his chest.

“ _ I’ll keep the king. I’ll keep him safe from the dark things that wait…” _

Iorveth was instantly alert, “What is it,  _ me minne _ ?” 

“No, not yet.” He changed his grip on Iorveth’s hand so he could thread their fingers together and pull them away from the fire, away from something he knew he couldn’t outrun no matter how much he wanted to. The words were ripped from his dream,  _ Protect your king, Vernon Roche. He is vulnerable and exposed right now. _ The cryptic words made sense now. Roche had kept an eye on Iorveth while he healed, and started to fix the deep, raw wounds caused by countless years of racism and fighting that had never been allowed to close and heal. Iorveth wasn’t vulnerable and exposed anymore - he had seen to that. 

Quickly, before he ran out of time altogether, he kissed Iorveth. He poured everything he didn’t have the words to say into the kiss. It was raw and desperate and almost on the wrong side of painful but still perfect - perfect because it was everything they had built up between the two of them. If this was going to be the last time he got to kiss Iorveth, he’d make it worth it. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against Iorveth’s lips, unwilling to part. 

Iorveth gripped Roche’s biceps hard enough to bruise.  _ Good. I want to carry a mark to remember this by, so I know it’s real. _ “What is it?”

Roche rested his head on Iorveth’s shoulder. “The hazelnuts? That wasn’t natural, it was done by someone else, someone powerful. It means something that I’ve been hoping would never happen.”

“I’m sorry,” Dandelion said from off to the side. He appeared apologetic as he approached the pair. “I’m afraid it’s time for you to move from your personal chessboard to the big time, my friend.” 

He felt his heart shatter in his chest. “Why?”

“There’s no time to lose.” Dandelion reached out and took a single step forward. 

  
  


VII.

  
  


“No wait!” his denial was torn from his throat as he felt the effects of Destiny stop time like it had before. “Couldn’t you at least let me say goodbye?” he asked, his nails digging into the soft skin of his palms. 

He could almost feel the cold wind that signaled the Wild Hunt’s approach from where he was once again standing by Ves with Dandelion next to him, handing him his Stripes uniform. “I had to make sure Geralt ended up where he needed to be, I’m sorry it took so long,” Dandelion said, blatantly ignoring Roche’s question. “I tried to meet up with you outside of Brenna, but you didn’t show up. Like I said: I can only nudge you in the right direction.” 

Roche changed with numb fingers, the fissure in his chest cracking open and bleeding hurt down into his soul. “Why was I allowed to know that you’re Destiny but no one else can? Isn’t that a bit ‘heavy-handed’?” 

Dandelion stepped close and Roche felt the urge to break his nose even if it would probably anger a deity enough to erase him from existence. “I know you’re disappointed, but don’t worry, nothing is going to go wrong, you fixed trouble it would have caused all on your own. But that’s not what you really wanted to ask.”

He methodically tugged his uniform into place, the familiar weight of his gambeson and chainmail no longer a comfort but a reminder of what he lost. “What’s so important about me? Why do I have to give up something good for a world that’s just waiting to tear me down and kill Iorveth? Why can’t I just rest and build a life with a lover?” he asked, his voice breaking with emotion.

Dandelion made a noise in the back of his throat and took another step into Roche’s personal space before Roche found himself wrapped in a hug. “Oh, Dear Heart, I know. But your story isn’t over yet.” 

Roche felt like stomping his foot like a petulant child. “You didn’t even give me time to tell him I love him.”

“But I did. You did say it once, I’m sure you don’t remember, but he heard it.” Dandelion released him from the hug but stayed close. “You said it with every touch and kind gesture and gentle teasing. You both said it every day.” 

It didn’t make him feel any better, it just made everything hurt more. 

“I have to go,” Dandelion said, sounding apologetic. “I’m needed back in Novigrad, I’m afraid. But, just remember what I told you: your story isn’t over yet, Vernon Roche. You have a touch of Destiny.” Dandelion brushed a kiss against Roche’s brow and disappeared just as time started to move forward again.

“ - That paint-peeling liquor is fantastic and you know it,” Ves said while poking him in the arm with a sharpened stake. 

Roche shook his head at Ves and turned to look back at Kaer Morhen. He couldn’t keep up the banter from before. He had six weeks to get a taste of everything he never allowed himself to want and then lost it all in the span of a heartbeat at the whim of a deity. “It’s starting,” he said as snow started to swirl heavily through the valley below the Witcher’s Keep. “Ves? I don’t know what’s going to happen next; we’re going up against more than anything we’ve ever trained for. I just want you to know that I’m so glad to have met you.” 

Ves leveled him with a confused look. “Are you okay, boss?”

He wanted to laugh, to rage against the injustice of it all. Instead, he sighed dramatically and held his sword at the ready. “I’m just being maudlin in my old age.” As the Hunt descended on the valley and they ran to join the others in the keep, he couldn’t help but whisper a quiet “ _ Va faill, _ ” into the frigid air. 

\--

After Vesemir’s pyre burned away, when everything was said and done and the ringing in his ears from Ciri’s scream had finally subsided, Roche approached Triss with Ves at his side.

He had seen plenty of death in his time, more than he would have liked, but there was something about a Witcher falling that made something uncomfortable snake through his guts. It made him want things he knew he had lost, made him want to run to Iorveth even though it had been several years for Iorveth since the last time he had seen Roche in any kind of positive light. 

Regardless, he had made his move as a Knight and had to wait for another opportunity. He knew he had to wait for the right time to strike, to finish what he started months ago when he made a pact with the devil to assassinate Radovid. At the time he had understood that Radovid was insane and couldn’t be allowed to continue to allow his Witch Hunters to go around and systematically slaughter magic users. 

Now though? Now, it was personal. 

He knew that if Radovid was to survive, the North would have a chance to rally under one banner and maybe defeat the Nilfgaardians again, but the cost was too high. Nilfgaard had allowed for treaties and while Emperor Emhyr would never be a favorite of Roche, Ciri would be perfect to take his place if she were to choose it. But it was more than that, Radovid wouldn’t stop with mages, he’d go after non-humans as his next scapegoat. Roche couldn’t let anything happen to Iorveth, even if his Squirrel would rightfully never forgive him he still needed to do everything he could to make sure no one would have to make the difficult choices Roche made while working as Foltest’s right hand, especially as the Witch Hunters seemed to enjoy the genocide. 

“Triss, would you do me a favor for old times sake?” Roche asked the redhead sorceress. 

Triss looked between Roche and Ves and rubbed her hands together, the amber color of a portal radiating from her palms. “One portal to home coming right up.” 

He nodded his thanks. “I know these aren’t ideal circumstances, but I’m glad to see you again. Take care of yourself.”

They stepped through the portal, the entrance to their hideout only just visible. Roche stumbled in shock when Triss followed them through and kept the portal open. “I didn’t mean to startle you -” she paused and leaned in close to Roche’s face so that he had to go cross-eyed to keep her in focus. Her hand brushed against his brow with a frown before she drew her hand back like she had been burned. “What happened during the Battle, Roche?” 

Roche dismissed Ves with a wave and a quick sign for ‘later’. “Honestly, Triss, I don’t even know where to start or what I can even tell you.” He closed his eyes and let the morning sun warm his face. “It’s been a long day and I’m getting too old for this shit.” 

“Roche, this magic is old. I don’t even know if I can honestly call it magic. Something touched you and marked you and you don’t seem at all surprised or worried.” 

He could feel her concern in her sharp tone. “ _ I know. _ I know exactly what it is, and it’s what I’m not sure I can tell you. I didn’t realize it was a real mark though.” He knew he sounded aloof at best but he was tired and he needed to see Iorveth more than he needed air. Roche knew it was dumb at best and at worst it was suicidal. “If I ask you for one more favor can you indulge me and not ask questions?”

She frowned at him and released the portal behind her. “I don’t like the sound of this. What’s going on, Roche?” 

It was the only way. He’d never find Iorveth without help and there was no way he could ask Ves or any of his commandos for help. “Can you trace someone? I don’t need an exact location, just an idea. I’ve got something I need to fix and I need your help.” 

Triss hesitated. “Yes, I can get you a location. Who am I finding?”

“Iorveth. I -”

Triss cut him off. “You can’t be serious! You just said it yourself that you’re tired. You can’t just go finish an old score after facing the Hunt!” 

“It’s not revenge, I promise. It’s just something I need to do. Please?” he wasn’t above begging. He wasn’t good at it, but he was ready to get on his knees if it meant he could try to mend the fissure in his chest and see Iorveth again. 

Triss squinted at him and let her eyes wander to the ‘mark’. If he ever ran into Dandelion again, he’d have to have some words about non-consensual branding even if it was metaphysical. He didn’t realize the ‘touch of Destiny’ Dandelion had been fond of repeating was a real thing. “Fine,” she said after a long moment. She didn’t sound happy to do it, but she untied a water skin from her belt and opened it. “Hold out your hands so I can pour water in them.” 

Roche did as she asked and stayed silent, unsure if he would ruin anything if he even breathed too loudly. “Well, he’s not in Aedirn. It looks like he’s not far. He’s camped outside of Novigrad. But Roche, he’s got his unit with him. You’ve got no chance of getting to him without getting yourself killed.” 

He used the water in his palms to splash in his face to cool off. 

"Thank you for your help, Triss. I know you already regret it, but I need you to have a little faith in me. I have a plan. I think I know how to deal with Iorveth."

She didn't believe him, he could see it. Nevertheless, she jumped at him and hugged him tightly. "I hope you know what you're doing. I have to go."

"Me too." He wasn’t sure which statement he was agreeing to, exactly. Both seemed appropriate. 

\----

Ves was fuming at him. Roche considered himself lucky that she hadn't stabbed him yet. To be fair, he figured she had more reason than just about anyone else. "Please Ves, you're the only one I trust to keep these guys in line while I'm gone." 

"Yeah, gone to meet your death! Didn't you get enough of that helping the Witchers?" She stomped her foot in anger and slugged him hard in the shoulder. "If you die, I'll never forgive you."

"Fair enough.” He turned to his bunk and almost choked. Sitting by the foot of his bed like it belonged there was the enchanted, near-sentient pack that he had carried across half the continent. It hadn’t been then a few minutes ago when he traded his Stripes armor for plain leather - lighter and easier to travel and move in.

He was almost afraid to guess how the pack had made its way back to him when he and Iorveth had left it at the campsite while they went to the Samhain celebration. “Stay safe, Little Sister,” Roche said to Ves after he shouldered the pack. He dodged her fist, grabbed her wrist, and used her momentum to pin her arm behind her back. “I won’t tell the others you fell for that.” 

  
  


VIII. 

  
  


When he was trying, it was surprisingly easy to get himself caught. He could feel the tip of an arrow against his spine not long after he started following the soft indent of a light-footed elf in the loamy soil. He could also sense several others trained on him, even if he couldn’t see them. He was well and truly surrounded. 

The rest of Roche’s plan, the rest of Roche’s  _ life _ was riding on how much he knew Iorveth - if he wouldn’t give his troops the okay to kill him on sight were to ever show his face again after their last one-on-one fight where Iorveth let him go. While it was buried under more recent and pleasant memories, he remembered the look on Iorveth’s face, the way he pronounced his name with such contempt, how it seemed to be both easy and difficult to let Roche go after Iorveth had won the upper hand and disarmed him in their face-off.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his hands to show they were empty. He kept as relaxed as possible while an elf with a murder-glare to rival Iorveth’s took his sword, dagger, and pack. 

The arrow at his back was traded for his own sword. “One false move,  _ dh’oine _ , and I cut your head off,” the elf at his back said before driving the tip of his sword forward with too much force to be an accident. “Move.” 

_ So far, so good _ , he thought to himself. Despite the sword at his back, the threat of decapitation, and being surrounded by heavily armed Scoia’tael who had every reason to want him dead, he was still alive and being led into their camp. 

Upon first glance, their camp was empty. Roche knew better though, there was no way Iorveth would send all his soldiers off in case of an ambush. A brilliant strategist like Iorveth would never put all his eggs in one proverbial basket. 

A soft and sad melody floated through the air once the posse forced him into their camp and onto his knees. The archers formed an arch around him, boxing him in between them and a line of tents and several cooking fires. If he had any inclination of trying to escape, he would find himself trying to avoid arrows coming from multiple directions while dodging too many obstacles to survive. 

Roche closed his eyes and let himself listen to the music. He couldn’t look for its source with the tip of his Falchion digging into the back of his neck to keep his head down, but he could feel Iorveth’s thousand-yard stare. A smart man would know he was fucked; Roche would definitely consider himself mad now because all he could feel was relief. He could feel himself relax further when his mind brought up a memory of exactly how it felt to have that gaze trained on him and only him. The memory made him smile. If he wasn’t given the chance to speak to Iorveth, to try and fix everything, he would keep hold of his feelings and the memories until the end. 

The music abruptly ended and a soft thump told him Iorveth had been sitting up in a tree playing his flute. “Well, well. Vernon Roche offers himself up on a silver platter,” Iorveth said as he took several steps forward. Now that he knew to listen for it, Roche could hear the angry emphasis on his name, but he could something else layered around the anger.

A short, sharp whistle and he was no longer in the sights of a dozen bows and the cold steel of his sword against the vulnerable back of his neck was gone. He chanced a look up, ready to stop if any of the Scoia’tael moved to draw their weapons again.

His breath caught in his throat when he caught sight of Iorveth’s face. It was obvious that he had managed to put some more weight back on after spending time in Aedirn. He looked healthy again. It made something settle in his chest, one worry less than he had before. “Gods, you’re gorgeous, Squirrel.” The words slipped out before he had time to consider them, but he had made it his job to make sure Iorveth believed him when he said he was beautiful and he wasn’t going to stop just because death was still a very possible outcome of his capture. The endearment probably wasn’t smartest, but they had turned their insults into endearments; and the soft, stupid way he said ‘squirrel’ was a dead giveaway that even the most oblivious person in the world would know it was a stand-in for ‘my love’. 

Roche saw a muscle in Iorveth’s jaw tick before he looked away from Roche. “Va,” he called to the surrounding elves. The muscle ticked again when the elves hesitated. “Va!” he repeated, the order of a Commander used to getting his way from his soldiers. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the elves back away and melt into the trees. 

They were alone again. For Roche it had been only a few days; Iorveth hadn’t seen him since Flotsam. It wasn’t quite the bubble of peace they had floated in while they traveled from Cintra to Temeria, but it was  _ something.  _

The curved blade Iorveth favored made its way under Roche’s chin. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't cut your throat right now and be done with it,  _ Roche _ ."

Roche swallowed reflexively and flinched as the blade made a small cut to the underside of his jaw. "I love you," he replied. If nothing else, he finally got to truly say the words to Iorveth’s face. 

He saw the tendons in Iorveth’s arm flex as he tightened his grip on his sword. "That's not good enough," Iorveth snarled, backing away from Roche as if he had been burned. 

"No, I suppose it's not. But I had to make sure you knew, even if I'm years too late for you to believe me. For me, it’s only been a few days since I last saw you."

Roche could hear the growl rumbling through Iorveth’s chest even with the distance. "You’re still a fucking liar," Iorveth accused, his voice catching at the end. 

"Yes. But not about this." Iorveth abandoned his sword and dropped in front of Roche as if he intended to strangle him with his bare hands. "I'm still wearing your marks. You broke the skin on my shoulder and it bruised purple within seconds. You had wrapped your fingers around my arms the night I disappeared after I told you I was sorry. Those are still there too." He pulled the collar of his shirt away to show the bruise where the indent of teeth was still visible and then pushed his sleeves up as far as they'd go to show off the finger-shaped bruises around his biceps. 

He could see Iorveth hesitate before he slowly reached out and matched his hands up to the bruises. When they matched Roche heard him make a high whine in the back of his throat but did nothing else except stare at his hand around Roche’s arm. 

"When I told you I had to rescue you and Isengrim, it was because Destiny told me, sent me back from the other day back to 1269 when we met." He saw the frown and knew he wasn’t getting anywhere. "Squirrel, I know this is shit, but I saved you knowing I was condemning my king to death. I made myself a monster so that I could save more than I killed. I don’t deserve anything from you -"

Iorveth interrupted with a sharp laugh. "You’re damn right you don't! You're responsible for so much - I should just kill you now."

"I wouldn't blame you. I've more than earned my execution at your hands. You're the one I'd want anyway if I had the choice." Roche took a deep breath and dropped his chin to his chest. He could probably get Iorveth to believe him about jumping through time given enough opportunity, but the blood on his hands was too much to look past. "Just, if you’d give me a moment - last words if you would.

"When Foltest assigned me to build the Blue Stripes, he told me what we were for. I knew it was my only chance to get away from being known only as a whoreson so I accepted. But I saw it that day. And maybe that's why I didn’t hesitate to free you and Isengrim. I knew that if Foltest wasn't assassinated that I wouldn't be able to keep him from making more special forces units who wouldn't change orders or try to limit casualties. I tried to keep it contained, but things like Mahakaman happened too often."

"Limiting yourself to slaughtering soldiers makes it better?" Iorveth reached into a pocket on the inside of his gambeson and pulled out Roche’s special forces insignia. "I took this but couldn't bring myself to wear it. I didn't want another reminder that I -" Iorveth trailed off without finishing his sentence and turned the scarred side of his face away.

Roche smiled sadly and saw his Iorveth, the one who demanded that Roche steal him a horse and the Iorveth who had been betrayed and abandoned kneeling in front of him. They were like two different people residing in the same body. "Yeah, I know. I had a hard time knowing I fell in love with someone who had organized raids, razed villages to the ground, stole supplies, and condemned innocent people to a slow death by starvation. But I could see where he was coming from. We had both done awful things to spare others from our fate, hated ourselves for it but did it anyway." 

It was quiet for a long time, Iorveth looking off in the distance and Roche letting himself memorize everything he could. If he was going to die, he wanted to find every minute change before the end. "Finish what you started, Ior." He shuffled around to square his shoulders and raise his head so he could at least know he'd die facing death with dignity, even if he was kept on his knees. 

Iorveth turned his face to face Roche. He hesitated for a long moment before he stood and took a few steps until he was standing behind Roche with a dagger pressed against his neck. 

"You got to talk, now I want to ask you one thing before you die. Tell me the truth, Roche: did you ever care or was it all a game? Get the stupid, damaged elf to love you and leave him?" 

Roche could hear the tears even if he wouldn't be allowed to see them. His own eyes burned in response. "You’re not stupid. You're not damaged. And I didn’t want to leave you. I asked him to just let me stay. Still don't know why he chose me, a nobody son of a whore - what could I possibly accomplish? But Destiny picked me and I couldn’t stop it." The burning turned to tears of his own. He couldn't help but lean slightly to feel Iorveth against his back. "I just wish I could make you believe me when I tell you that you're still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and I'm so sorry I couldn’t protect your heart from a monster like me."

He closed his eyes and felt more tears fall down his cheeks. "Go ahead," he whispered and tilted his head back to expose his throat. 

  
  


IX.

  
  
  


"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," a voice said. Roche opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of brightly colored silks sitting cross-legged on absolutely nothing. "You see, there are certain players, certain people who are so much more than they think they are."

Dandelion was looking at them with an unreadable expression, but his ancient eyes showed more pain that Roche could wrap his head around. 

"My sweet, brave boys who had to be put on a path no one else would be strong enough to endure. You've both followed your destines to bring about the best possible outcome. Thanks to you, there’s now a real chance for the Child of the Gull to end a threat too great for anyone but her." Dandelion stopped and momentarily buried his face in his hands. "And once that happens, it opens so many new doors and new paths and I'll be able to see where to send her and the others who are still needed. You've done your part, Iorveth. And you're nearly there, Vernon.

"But please don't believe that means you're done. There are people out there and right here who need you. It just means you get to rest and build a life with a lover."

Roche felt his heart break again - and how many more times could it break before it killed him? - Dandelion echoed Roche’s plea and turned it into a statement like it was something he could have when the one person he wanted was still holding a dagger to his throat. "That's not fair," he hissed. "I asked you,  _ pleaded  _ with you for just that and you took it away. Now what? You dangle it in front of me knowing it's impossible. Please don’t mock me."

Dandelion unfolded his legs so that his feet were on the ground and he was no longer floating on air. He closed the distance between them and reached down to put a hand on Roche’s shoulder. "I wasn't. But I wasn't using just your words. Was I, Iorveth? Do you remember asking a very similar question years ago when you were so tired of the fighting because you couldn't see an end?"

Iorveth froze, Roche could feel it against his back. The dagger moved away from his neck finally as Iorveth stood up straight and moved instead to point it at Dandelion. “How do you know that?” he growled. “It was  _ decades  _ ago. Ciaran and I were -” 

Dandelion nodded and cut Iorveth off with a finger against his lips, completely unconcerned at the dagger pointed at his heart. “I know because Ciaran is one of mine. He’s a Watcher. He doesn’t know that, it’s not the point of a Watcher to know. But I’ve placed them with important people. You have Ciaran. You, Vernon, have Ves. Hjalmar watches his sister Cerys in Skellige. I could go on. I’m not omnipresent, I cannot possibly be everywhere at once so when a Watcher sees something, I see it. It’s how I know where to be when something big is happening and a  _ push _ is necessary.”

Roche could see the moment Iorveth believed Dandelion and the hostility all but melted away from his posture. “So everything that’s ever happened - we don’t - free will isn’t real?” 

Dandelion shook his head. “No, no. It very much is real. There are some things that have to happen, some major or minor events, people who must meet, et cetera. But as long as they do, it doesn’t matter how it happens,” he explained, his words accompanied by wild hand gestures. 

Roche felt something in him relax, like Dandelion’s words soothed something that he hadn’t realized existed. If not everything was predetermined, then what he felt - he had to know. “So, I  _ had to _ stop Ior and Isengrim from being executed, and get Ior back to Temeria in one piece but that’s it? You didn’t have a hand in anything else?” 

“ _ No! _ ” Dandelion looked affronted as if he had no idea why Roche could think that Destiny forced him to love Iorveth. “Healing comes in many forms, Dear Heart. Your destinies are entwined but that’s it. You were meant to save and heal. Love cannot come from someone like me. I didn’t make you love each other.” 

Both Roche and Iorveth sagged in relief. Roche couldn’t help the warmth in his chest when Iorveth didn’t correct Dandelion. Iorveth turned his head to look over at Roche, something close to hope lighting up his face. 

Iorveth’s hand, the one not still clutching onto his dagger, reached into a hidden pocket in the inside of his gambeson. 

Roche wasn’t sure what Iorveth was reaching for but two perfectly roasted hazelnuts were not at all what he would’ve guessed. 

“I had them put in stasis by a mage. I couldn’t let them go, even after I found out who you were, Vernon,” Iorveth said, not looking up from the hazelnuts. “I kept them as a reminder not to be fooled again. But also - I couldn’t - not when it was, when I was -” he stopped and closed his hand into a fist around them. “The reaction, that was you right?” 

Dandelion smiled. “Yes. Sometimes I can be a bit theatrical. It’s why I chose the form of a bard. After Roche told you what they did, I couldn’t help but give you a sign. Just because there’s no cosmic involvement in your feelings doesn’t mean that what you two had wasn’t something powerful and incredible.” Dandelion tapped a finger against his lower lip and a faraway look slid over his face like he was seeing something beyond their surroundings. “Maybe…” 

Roche watched Dandelion start pacing, muttering to himself under his breath. “If you’ll forgive me, Dear Hearts, I’ll be back. I need to check on something and I can’t do it in this form. Don’t uh, don’t go anywhere. I don't think we’re done yet.” With a small wave, he was gone, leaving Roche and Iorveth alone again.

Iorveth sat down heavily as if he was a puppet whose strings had been cut. “So that’s how you knew to give me that flute as a gift. I uh, may have destroyed it once I learned you were the Temerian special forces Commander,” Iorveth confessed, a frown on his lips.

Even though he expected that Iorveth would have gotten rid of everything that reminded him of Roche but it was still painful to hear. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want a reminder of me either.”

Iorveth huffed and kicked at Roche. “I don’t recall your memory being this bad, Vernon.” He gently tossed the hazelnuts over to Roche who fumbled to catch them.

Roche smiled at the small reminder of when he had been so happy even though they also represented one of the most painful moments of his life. “Hey, there was nothing to totally prove they represented us. They represented you and whomever you desire. Could’ve been anybody.” He was needling Iorveth, but he wanted to see what would happen. Since he was still alive after Dandelion left them alone, he figured he wasn’t in too much immediate danger of death and he may be able to get away with indirectly asking if Iorveth still felt anything but hatred for him.

“They could’ve been,” Iorveth agreed. “But you and I both know the truth. The second was for you.” 

“Doubt they’d be the same now,” he countered.

Iorveth didn’t respond. Instead, he closed his eye and laid back, his head resting on his arms. Roche watched the sun shine on him, giving him an ethereal glow. He knew, given the chance, he could spend every moment just  _ looking _ at Iorveth for the rest of his life. “Beautiful,” he breathed out, barely audible. He felt dazed and breathless. 

“I can feel you staring at me,” Iorveth said, not bothering to move or open his eye to level Roche with a glare. 

“Yeah? What are you going to do about it, Squirrel?” Roche challenged, feeling reckless. It was a rush he didn’t think he would ever get to feel again. There was something about their chemistry that always created a charged atmosphere, like the humming in the air before a lightning storm. 

In one graceful movement, Iorveth sat up and moved so he was right up in Roche’s face with his dagger up against Roche’s belly. “I could gut you right now,” he suggested, accepting the challenge with a fire burning within the green of his eye. To make his point, Iorveth dragged the dagger across Roche’s middle, just under his navel - light enough not to cut, but with enough force to be threatening. 

“If it would help you move on and heal, do it. I won’t stop you, Ior,” Roche said, not taking his eyes off Iorveth’s face even when it clouded with anger. 

In a move done so fast Roche could hardly follow it, Iorveth threw his dagger into the ground with enough force to bury the tip several inches into the hard-packed earth of the Scoia’tael camp. “Why do you keep doing that?” he shouted at Roche, his chest heaving with his harsh breathing. “Why do you just offer your life like it means nothing? Do you really -” Iorveth cut himself off with a growl and turned away from Roche but making no move to put distance between them. 

Roche watched as Iorveth curled his knees up to his chest and rested his head against them to hide his face. It took an alarmingly long time for Roche to notice the trembling of Iorveth’s shoulders. “Ior?” Roche reached a hand out to touch Iorveth’s shoulder but stopped before he made contact, unsure if it would be welcomed. 

“I can’t do it, Vernon. I couldn’t do it back in Flotsam and I can’t do it now. _I_ _can’t_ _do it_. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did,” Iorveth said into his knees, his voice muffled and shaking. “Please stop telling me to kill you.” 

To Roche’s horror, he realized Iorveth was right. He had told Iorveth several times to kill him, and his request had affected Iorveth more than he realized. “I’m sorry, Squirrel.” After only a moment’s hesitation, he continued. “Can I -” he gently tapped Iorveth’s shoulder to telegraph his request. 

Iorveth nodded, his face still hidden. Roche scooted across the space between them, moving for the first time since being forced onto his knees by Iorveth’s men. He wrapped his arms around Iorveth and buried his face in his elf’s neck. 

Slowly Iorveth relaxed and let go of his knees to sink into the embrace. “I missed this,” he whispered, almost too low to be heard. “You were always so warm. Didn’t think I’d get to feel it ever again.” 

“I know, neither did I. When Dandelion took me back to where he took me from, I thought that was the end.” 

“When you disappeared, just pulled out of my arms, out of my life, I was fucking devastated. There I was, one moment I was praying that some silly tradition would tell me what I thought was guaranteed, the next I was alone and -” Iorveth stopped his reminiscence and curled up tighter to Roche like he was trying to chase away the feeling of being alone. 

“I know it doesn’t help, but I didn’t want to go. I kept hoping that maybe he forgot about me, that Dandelion would just not come back. I kept hoping I’d get to keep you by my side for as long as you’d have me,” Roche confessed into Iorveth’s neck. He could feel the slight increase of Iorveth’s pulse against his lips when he couldn’t help but place a soft kiss against the inky vines. 

Iorveth carefully turned and extracted himself from Roche’s arms. He couldn’t help the bereft noise that left his throat. “Hush,  _ me minne _ , I’m not going anywhere.” Iorveth proved his words by reaching up and cradling Roche’s face in his hands before using the slight grip to bring their lips together. It was like coming home after being gone, familiar, and perfect. “I’d have you for longer than possible,” Iorveth said against Roche’s lips so he could feel the answer as much as hear it. 

The quiet calm that had descended over them was broken by loud, excited clapping. “Oh, hooray! I was hoping this would happen!” 

Both Roche and Iorveth froze before they turned as one towards the interruption. “ _ Dandelion _ ,” Roche growled, uncaring that he was about to threaten a deity, “you should be glad that I like you and that I’m unarmed.” 

Roche choked on a laugh when Iorveth whispered “I’m not,” under his breath, looking flushed and beautiful as he glared at Dandelion. Roche pinched his thigh and shot him a  _ look _ . 

Dandelion waved off their threats with a wide, blinding smile. “I was hoping this would happen,” he repeated and bounced on the balls of his feet like an excited child, not a cosmic being. “Now I can tell you what I know. I told you that your destinies are entwined, you were destined to meet. But, in order for this all to happen, we had to do some  _ adjustments _ . Roche needed to be in two places at once: building up a team that will, um, be  _ necessary _ soon, and he also had to be in Dillingen. That’s very impossible without some creative cosmic intervention.”

Roche made note of how Dandelion emphasized ‘necessary’. He couldn’t help but wonder if the plot against Radovid wasn’t as futile as it had seemed. He could think of no other reason building another team he could trust with his life and his secrets would be necessary enough to need to bend time so he could do two things at once. 

“This creative cosmic intervention created a temporary tether so that you would be able to find each other. It was harmless, just something that would fade after it wasn’t necessary any longer. You solidified that tether by making your bond physical. It became permanent when you promised yourselves to each other.” Dandelion stopped and looked at them with moon eyes. “I wish you could’ve seen it. In my realm, it was like watching a universe explode into existence. It was blindingly bright and - and - I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Iorveth huffed in mock annoyance but Roche could see tears clinging to his eyelashes. “That’s all well and good, fantastic even - but what does it  _ mean _ ?” Iorveth asked. His hand sought out Roche’s even as he kept his eye on Dandelion. 

“Oh! Well, as far as the world is concerned, it doesn’t mean anything. But for you two? That depends on you. The tether is weaved into your souls, Dear Hearts. You are now one soul existing in two bodies. It means Roche will live as long as you do, Iorveth. In essence, Roche, you will live for centuries because Iorveth will; you’ll have the life expectancy of an Aen Seidhe. 

“And when the time does come, you will not leave each other behind.”

Roche looked over at Iorveth whose face was showing the level of complete awe that he was sure was reflected on his own. 

“Hear that, Vernon? You’re stuck with me now.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Oh no, whatever will I do?” he asked once he had recovered from his laughing fit. 

Neither of them noticed when Dandelion disappeared with a muttered, “I’ll see myself out.” 

Roche smiled and tugged Iorveth back into his arms by the handhold they had yet to drop. There was so much to be done, Roche had to figure out how to reorganize Dijkstra, Thaler, their Redanian informants, maybe Geralt if he could manage it - so much had to happen as soon as possible. Then there was the question of what to do with his men. He’d talk to them, and pass the torch to Ves if she wanted it. 

Iorveth interrupted his mental list with a poke to his sides. “You’re thinking too much, my love. We have time to organize everything later.” 

Roche let out a victorious laugh when Iorveth said ‘my love’ in the exact way he did ‘me minne’. “Sorry, just figured out what you’d been calling me when you would switch to Elder.” 

Iorveth smiled at him and pulled him in for another kiss. “I’ll teach you if you’d like. Although, I’ve been told I’m a lousy teacher.” 

“Well, I’m a lousy student, so we’re fucked,” Roche countered. 

“Yes. For centuries.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Roche teased with an eye-roll.

“Yes. For centuries,” Iorveth repeated. “I love you.” 

“Yes. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for hanging in with me. This wasn't supposed to be this long, but that's what happens when I ponder how Isengrim and Iorveth escaped from execution when no one else did at the Ravine and then playing the game of what-ifs for several days of hyperfocused writing.


End file.
